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THE SON OF DON JUAN 



THE 



SON OF DON JUAN 

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INSPIRED BY THE READING OF IBSEN'S WORK 
ENTITLED "GENGANGERE" 



BY 

JOSE ECHEGARAY 



TRANSLATED BY JAMES GRAHAM 



BOSTON 

LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY 

1911 






Copyright, 1895, 
By Roberts Brothers. 



^4# rights reserved. 



BXCHAVGI 

7 

APR 23 1942 



Printers 
B. J. Pabkhill & Co., Boston, U. S. 



Jose Echegaray : a Sketch. 



BY JAMES GRAHAM. 

The author of the plays here done into English was 
born in Madrid on the Thursday in Holy Week of 
sixty-three years ago. In spite of a fair indication to 
go by, his friends are responsible for the curious 
assertion that he himself does not know, or has not 
taken the trouble to verify, the exact date of his birth. 
A reference to familiar sources of chronology enables 
us to make a respectful claim to better information on 
the point than the person most concerned. So the 
day of Senor Echegaray 's birth may be fixed precisely 
as the 19th of April, 1832. 

The first three years of the dramatist's life were 
passed in the capital of Spain. In 1835 he was 
removed from Madrid by his father, who had just 
obtained the appointment of Professor of Greek at 
the Institute of Murcia. It was in Murcia that Jose' 
received the rudiments of his education; and while 
still a child he entered the institute. Here he studied 
Latin under Professor Soriano, Natural History under 
Angel Girao, and Greek under his own father. The 
boy was early seen to be gifted with brain-power of 
the first order. And being of a docile and amiable 
nature, of active and laborious habits, having the 



6 JOSE ECHEGARAY : 

advantage of excellent tutors, and being under the 
supervision of a kind and cultured father, it is hardly 
to be wondered at that his progress in learning was 
great and rapid. From the first he displayed that 
passion for mathematics which has never grown cool 
in him throughout life. His interest in literature 
itself was far from absorbing. He showed, indeed, 
some liking for novels and romantic dramas. For 
tragic writers of the stamp of Corneille and Racine he 
could not conceal his disrelish, though the fairness of 
his mind would never permit him to ignore or deny 
the many beauties of the classic drama. When he 
was fifteen years old he became Bachelor of Philo- 
sophic Science, and proceeded to Madrid in the 
month of October, 1847, t0 prepare for entrance into 
the Escuela de Caminos. In this great school the 
mathematical professor was Angel Riguelme, under 
whose able tuition young Echegaray devoted himself 
with increased ardor to his favorite study. His 
affection for literature, it is true, had been gradually 
strengthening. In the midst of his graver studies he 
had also frequented the theatres. But he never failed 
to return with an almost frenzied delight to the branch 
of knowledge which afforded such food to his voracious 
intellect. To use his own language, he "studied the 
higher mathematics ferociously, ravenously." It has 
been maintained that in all the records of Spanish 
scientific history no one has ever been known to 
devote more eager and profound study to mathe- 
matics than Jose Echegaray. His whole spirit 
seemed to be inextricably identified with the subject, 
to be indissolubly enchained to it. Mathematics 
became for him the most absolute of necessities, the 
supreme of joys. The following is an experience 
related by a fellow student of Ecfregaray when both 



A SKETCH. 7 

were at the Escuela de Caminos. " Every Saturday 
our professor of mathematics was fond of setting us 
problems of the most difficult kind, the solutions of 
which we were expected to hand in on the Monday. 
On a certain occasion the problem given out to us 
was of such an excruciatingly intricate nature that the 
huge majority of the class had to give up all hope of 
mastering it. I was among the unsuccessful ones. I 
had seen Saturday, Sunday, pass over without bring- 
ing me nearer to a glimpse of light. On the Monday 
morning I was all at once inspired with the idea of 
going to Echegaray to obtain some hint on a question 
which could not have failed to occupy his attention at 
least as much as mine. It was an hour before the 
time appointed for the opening of the Escuela and 
the delivering up of the answers. I set out for Eche- 
garay's lodging. I found my friend in his room. 
The curtains were drawn and the shutters were 
fastened over the windows. On the chimney-piece 
was an expiring lamp. On the edge of the bed — the 
clothes of which were tossed about in much disorder 
— sat Echegaray in his nightshirt. His head was 
bent, and he was in an attitude of deep thought. 
The noise which I made on entrance was as unsuc- 
cessful as my friendly greeting in withdrawing him 
from his abstraction. He confined himself to raising 
his hand with a gentle but expressive motion, and 
to saying ' Hush ! ' Suddenly he bounded up, un- 
dressed as he was, and, to my stupefaction, exclaim- 
ing, ' Here it is ! ' hurried across to a small board 
close at hand. He commenced to draw lines upon 
lines and circles upon circles, and dash down figures 
here and there, till at length he said, 'The whole 
night have I been thinking of that problem, and — 
look there ! ' And he drew back to show me the 



8 jose echegaray: 

signs all fairly traced, the operation completed, the 
problem solved. This rehearsed performance he 
repeated in school that morning. He alone did it. to 
the admiration and almost to the alarm of the pro- 
fessor himself, who, I think, had really given out the 
problem without much serious thought of any one 
even attempting a solution." 

Echegaray had entered the Escuela de Caminos in 
1848. He finished his course of study in 1853, 
carrying off with him the highest honors that the 
institution could bestow, and being placed far and 
away the first of all his contemporaries. Meanwhile 
the literary and dramatic instinct lay almost entirely 
asleep in him. It sprang up fitfully now and then in 
a curiosity to assist at the initiatory performances of 
pieces by first-rate, second-rate, and even third-rate 
authors. Echegaray was always held up as an exem- 
plary pupil ; he fulfilled his duties at school with 
almost exaggerated obedience and scrupulousness ; 
and yet once — only once — he ran out of the Escuela 
de Caminos without permission that he might not be 
too late to buy tickets for the first night of Ayala's 
drama, " El Hombre de Estado." On leaving the 
Escuela, then, in 1853, Echegaray had already seen 
many dramas, and had read a vast number of French, 
English, Italian, and Portuguese novels, ancient and 
modern, of all kinds. But he had not himself essayed 
anything in literature. He had not written a verse. 
The making of verses appeared to him a thing quite 
foreign to his nature. In this the enemies of Eche- 
garay are affable enough, for once, to agree with him ; 
and they remain constant to their belief when he has 
long since had ample reason for changing his mind. 
The mathematical rigidity and angularity of much of 
his poetry, say these enemies, is not compensated for 



A SKETCH. 9 

even by the daring originality of his conceptions, his 
nobility of sentiment, the richness of his imagery, the 
splendor of his language; they deny to him, for 
instance, the exquisite ease and melody of Espron- 
ceda, the bird-like spontaneity and perhaps fatal 
fluency of Jose Zorilla. In short, during these days 
of his dawning manhood, Echegaray had never 
dreamed of being a poet, still less a dramatic genius. 

The requirements of his profession as tutor of 
mathematics, to which he now formally addressed 
himself, took him to various important cities — 
Granada, Almeria, Palencia — thus keeping him away 
for years from the capital, where he was destined to 
shine in whatever he undertook. At last the moment 
came for his return to Madrid. He was elected Pro- 
fessor of Mathematics at the Escuela de Caminos, at 
the very institution where he had achieved such 
triumphs as a boy and a young man, and where he 
had left behind him so many pleasing remembrances. 
And now his 'professional engagements, and the 
extraneous tasks which he voluntarily imposed on 
himself, scarcely left him time to breathe. During 
the thirteen years of his occupation of the mathe- 
matical chair an immense number of classes had the 
advantage of his teaching of the Infinitesimal Cal- 
culus, Theoretical and Applied Mechanics, Hydro- 
statics, Curve-tracing, Descriptive Geometry and its 
applications, Solid Geometry, and so on into the 
dimmest heights of the science. During this time he 
devoted himself to Political Economy, to Philosophy, 
to Geology, and to another study, entered upon with 
slight equipment by many men, very seriously and 
with all his faculties by this man — Politics. At the 
Bolsa and the Free Exchange Propaganda he de- 
livered orations full of subtle thought and sound 



IO JOSE ECHEGARAY : 

doctrine ; in the Ateneo he spoke enthusiastically in 
favor of pure democracy; in presence of the Society 
of Political Economy he pronounced numerous dis- 
courses appropriate to their several occasions, and 
distinguished by an order of eloquence which was 
looked upon as remarkable, even in a capital where 
almost every one seems endowed with the gift of 
picturesque and ready speech. He published different 
articles in the Econo?nista, La Razon, and other 
periodicals — it seeming impossible that he should 
give his attention to multitudinous labors of this 
kind, and at the same time devote eight or ten 
hours of his days and nights to private lessons in 
mathematics and to public lectures on other subjects, 
among which were Physics and Naval and Military 
Engineering. Such excessive work would have 
paralyzed a nature less vigorous than Echegaray's? 
but in the continuance of a portion of it he was 
unexpectedly stopped. The private lessons which he 
had been giving would have raised an independence 
for him. They were prohibited. Echegaray was 
made a victim of the administrative despotism to 
which the authorities of the Escuela de Caminos were 
compelled to bow. He applied for a special license; 
it was refused. In his indignation he was about to 
leave the Escuela. But there he was assured that 
he would be acting ill-advisedly. If he indeed aban- 
doned his career in defiance, he would forfeit all his 
rights as a tutor in the public schools of Spain. The 
earnest remonstrances of his friends, joined to the 
promptings of his own reason, induced him to relin- 
quish the design. His most powerful motive against 
precipitancy was that he had not the heart to break 
with the work of his whole life. He was the soul of 
the Escuela. He had become indispensable, alike to 



A SKETCH. II 

his fellow professors and to his pupils. Mathematics 
consoled him for all his trials, and to them he con- 
tinued to consecrate himself with a loving fervor 
which even he had never surpassed. The mathe- 
matical treatises which he then began to send forth 
in rapid succession from the press will not be readily 
allowed to die by the scientific world of Spain. 

Being about this time commissioned by the 
Spanish Government to study the works of tunnel 
making at Mont Cenis, and having no opportunity of 
doing so at leisure on his arrival, a very brief inspec- 
tion sufficed for him to understand, or rather to guess, 
the whole of the internal mechanical arrangements of 
the perforators. And, thanks to this, and without 
bringing away with him sketches or plans of any sort, 
he, on his return to Spain, drew up a memorial with 
the most detailed description — a description subse- 
quently proved accurate in all essential particulars — 
of the mechanism and procedure employed in the 
enterprise. 

All this while there had been nothing in Eche- 
garay's tastes or performances that gave evidence of 
the poet, the dramatist, or even, in any distinct form, 
of the man of letters. His literary works, or rather 
such works of his as had even a suspicion of literary 
flavor about them, had been thus far confined to 
certain political orations, to articles on Political 
Economy, to publications on Mathematics, and to a 
humorous little sketch entitled, "The Comet, or a 
Carnival Joke " which appeared in a Madrid news, 
paper. Echegaray's partiality for the reading of 
novels and for the frequenting of theatres was the 
same. Still there was no awakening within him of 
any expressed ambition to write in emulation of those 
whose productions he admired as a spectator. 



I 2 JOSE ECHEGARAY : 

Towards the year 1864 it was that Jose's brother 
Miguel, then a mere lad, wrote a little piece in one 
act and in verse entitled, " Cara o Cruz," which was 
put on the stage, and was received in a friendly 
manner. And Jose, equally startled and amused at 
the spectacle of his boy brother writing smooth and 
harmonious verse, rapidly acquired the conviction 
that, after all, the writing of verses ought to have no 
stupendous difficulty about it. He did not long delay 
an experiment. He immediately set about putting 
together an appalling tragic argument, which he ver- 
sified with tolerable ease. In this fashion was com- 
posed his first play. He kept it by him for a year. 
Having in the meanwhile dedicated himself with 
serious and characteristically energetic study to the 
whole question of dramatic writing, he drew the piece 
forth and read it a second time. He found it by no 
means equal to his first complacent judgment of its 
merits. He at once chose a safer hiding-place for it 
than previously, and it has never seen the light. 
Echegaray was becoming more and more immersed 
in these new subjects of interest, when an interruption 
came in the most notable public episode of his life. 
The revolution of 1868, and the flight of Isabella, 
launched him into the full tide of politics. His known 
ability naturally fitted him for the pla3'ing of a pro- 
minent part. He was very speedily selected for 
Cabinet rank in the newly-formed Government. He 
was created Minister for the Colonies. His new 
duties, entered upon and sustained with vigor and 
success, removed him for five years from the concerns 
of literature and the drama. Towards 1873, on the 
dissolution of the Permanent Commission of the 
Cortes, Echegaray's name was proscribed. He was 
in imminent danger of death. He escaped to France. 



A SKETCH. 13 

Eventually the ban was taken from his name, and his 
life was preserved, through the commanding influence 
of Emilio Castelar. This has been ever since grate- 
fully acknowledged in a manner which does credit 
alike to the great orator and the great dramatist. 

In the meantime, during his comparatively brief 
exile, Echegaray had written in Paris his drama, 
"El Libro Talonario." It is the first of his pieces 
which was put on the stage, and the date of its pro- 
duction is February 18, 1874 — not long after the 
author's return to Spain. Nothing commonplace 
could come from Echegaray, yet neither in style nor 
in argument does the work give any revelation of the 
future greatness of the writer. Very little better was 
the reception accorded by the critics of Madrid to the 
second performance of the new poet, " La Esposa del 
Vengador," also produced in 1874. There was not 
one, however, who failed to admit the numerous 
beauties of either play. The third effort, " La Ultima 
Noche," again, was declared to be a chaotic conjunc- 
tion of graces and monstrosities : as a work of genius 
unimpeachable ; as a display of true dramatic quality, 
absurd. 

On the other hand, the public of Madrid, roused to 
the highest pitch of interest in the new career marked 
out for himself by the celebrated mathematician, the 
ex-Cabinet Minister, the returned exile, had been 
receiving one after the other of his dramas with 
delight. This was not enough for a man of such iron 
will as Echegaray. He was deliberately bent on 
subduing his critics. His three first dramas had 
been experiments. He had been merely trying his 
hand. 

On the 1 2th of October, 1875, was produced " En 
el puiio de la Espada." The play was welcomed with 



14 JOSE ECHEGARAY : 

unanimous and boundless enthusiasm. The irregular 
and fiery genius, whose only enemy seemed to be his 
individual rashness, had stepped safely aside from 
down-rushing avalanches and gaping precipices, had 
scaled the heights reached by those few alone whose 
names will live, and was looking down in security and 
serenity alike on admiring critics and acclaiming 
public. From that night the severest judges of the 
Spanish capital recognized that there had come 
among them a dramatist of the first rank. Since 
that night Echegaray's career has been one long 
triumphal march, his path strewn with flowers, his 
eyes rejoiced with the smiles of countless friends, his 
ears greeted with cries and songs of praise — and envy. 

One of the most noted peculiarities in the onward 
course of Echegaray is the mixture of patient scorn 
and fierce energy with which he declines to look upon 
difficulties as insurmountable. Not merely in the 
solution of a hard problem in mathematics, or in 
clearing from his path the impediments which now 
make him rule the theatre of Spain as a monarch, 
does Echegaray show the tremendous force of his 
will. The rough term in which Ancient Pistol sums 
up the attributes of the Spaniard of Shakespeare's 
time could not be more ludicrously applied than to 
such a man as Jose Echegaray. 

In our country it is natural to conceive that we 
can pay no higher compliment to a man than by 
proclaiming him to be even as one of ourselves. 
Mr. Swinburne recognizes — and with infallible 
justice — "a decisive note of the English spirit in 
Moliere," as well as in Rabelais. In one way, at 
least, in the moral if not in the intellectual sense, in 
his resolution to ignore defeat, however incongruous 
be the task he may undertake, there appears to the 



A SKETCH. 15 

observer of Echegaray's career something strangely 
English. Two anecdotes may be given, alike as 
proofs of his almost boundless versatility, and of his 
ever-abiding but unboastful aim of breaking through 
seemingly impenetrable obstacles. On one occasion, 
he being in a drawing-room with several of his 
friends, among whom was a philosophical critic of 
some renown, the conversation fell upon German 
philosophy. Echegaray, who knew little of the 
matter discussed, and less of the German tongue, 
deemed it presumptuous to hazard an opinion for or 
against the thesis advanced, and maintained an 
absolute silence. Gradually, however, the debate 
resolved itself into a dispute as to the possibility of 
making an exhaustive study of a certain school of 
philosophy within a relatively short period. There 
can hardly be a more modest or amiable man than 
Echegaray, and yet the mere breathing of the word 
"impossibility" has been known at times to rouse 
him into an attitude of imperial defiance almost 
worthy of Caesar or Napoleon. He left the house 
with the secret intention of proving that nothing is 
difficult to a man with clear brain and indomitable 
purpose. From that hour he devoted himself with 
patient zeal to no less a task than that of studying 
the special school of philosophy just argued about in 
the very fountains from which it emanated, in the 
original text of the German authors themselves. 
With such effect did he apply himself that, two 
months later, being in almost the same company, and 
the conversation — as the narrators will have it, with 
the usual emphatic pointing to coincidence — veering 
round to the same theme, the new student of philo- 
sophy displayed a depth of discernment, an acuteness 
of independent thought, a readiness of argumentative 



1 6 jose echegaray: 

resource, a fertility of citation from the German 
language itself, which confounded the listeners ; and 
apart from the congratulations on his new linguistic 
acquirement, there was an unanimous admission that 
Echegaray had expressed himself on the subject as a 
master in the midst of novices. 

Another time he was in the company of friends who 
were engaged in a most exhaustive dissertation on 
the art of fencing. Innumerable were the experiences 
detailed in illustration of practice with the sabre, the 
sword, and the foil. Those who were least excited by 
the discussion turned now and then to Echegaray 
with a courteous explanation and a general air of 
respectful apology for treating of matters in which he 
— justly honored by them all, of course, but in his 
very far removed walk as the foremost mathematician 
of their country — could take no conceivable interest. 
Echegaray, in truth, had never held an offensive 
weapon in his hand. Next day, however, he appeared 
at the rooms of one of the best-known fencing masters 
of Madrid, enrolled his name as a pupil, and took his 
first lesson instantly. There are living eye-witnesses 
who tell how, three months afterwards, the grave 
mathematician, the coming lord of the Spanish 
drama, in a desperate encounter with foils, repeatedly 
hit, and at length actually disarmed his fencing master 
himself, amid the intense amazement and uproarious 
enthusiasm of bystanders, who counted among them 
some of the most expert fencers in the Spanish 
capital. 

Echegaray's very career as a dramatist might in a 
measure be described as a gigantic experiment in the 
art of vanquishing difficulties, an elaborate and pro- 
longed tour-de-force. He was a spectator of his 
brother Miguel's boyish and successful entrance into 



A SKETCH. 17 

the domain of dramatic poetry. He saw nothing to 
prevent himself from following in the same path. 
His own prescription for writing verse is concise, and 
contains a justification of his new departure. He 
sums up the full requirements of a poet in " A little 
bit of grammar, a little bit of imagination, and a 
tolerable ear for music." This is a matter-of-fact 
style of putting things which may seem rather like a 
ruthless tearing aside of the veil from a sanctuary that 
should never be revealed to profane eyes. The great 
unpublished poets whose own works are the result of 
the purest inspiration will resent it accordingly. Yet 
there is reason for suspicion that Shakespeare might 
have expressed himself on the dread mystery in some 
such light-hearted manner as Echegaray. The 
Spanish dramatist, however, omits one important 
condition which he, at least, has well fulfilled. He 
has all through life acted up to the letter of Carlyle's 
teaching as to the " perennial nobleness and even 
sacredness " of "Work." With him the main neces- 
sity in all the ways of life is hard labor, untiring 
drill, constant self-perfection. In his own example he 
seems to declare that even poets cannot straightway 
claim to be in the charmed circle of Mascarille's 
" gens de qualite " qui " savent tout sans avoir jamais 
rien appris." 

One of the first things that strikes the student of 
Echegaray is the air of oppressive gloom which per- 
vades most of his work. In his more deeply medi- 
tated efforts a combination of nearly all imaginable 
elements of awful woe and sombre despair frequently 
leads to a catastrophe, from the contemplation of 
which even the least hysterical of readers will find it 
difficult to turn aside with calmness. In a certain 
sense this poet may be said to have in him something 
2 



1 8 JOSE ECHEGARAY : 

of classic delicacy and reserve — with regard, in 
especial, to scenes of death. The introduction of 
actual death upon the stage is always a matter of 
profound concern to him. Yet it is never awkwardly 
shrunk from, and when used as a last resort, when 
fear has had laid upon it " as much as it can bear," 
when life is " weaned and wearied till it is ready to 
drop," then death in the hands of Echegaray seldom 
fails to be brought forward with an almost overpower- 
ing effect. The Spanish dramatist, in short, possesses 
that pleasing and instinctive reverence for the dead 
which all true artists have. The author of " Guy 
Mannering" and the author of " Monte Cristo," in 
the very height of the gayety, the gallantry, the 
majesty of their descriptions of their own and former 
times; Dickens and Thackeray, in the full flow of 
their mocking indignation or their lacerating irony, 
will be seen all at once to stop short. Their looks 
change. Their tones become softened and their eyes 
downcast. They slowly uncover their heads and 
invite us to do the same. For they and we are in 
the presence of the dead ; and before the lowliest of 
their departed fellows these mighty spirits incline 
themselves in solemn veneration. Of Echegaray's 
power over the pulses of uttermost sorrow and terror, 
without the calling in of death, an example may be 
met with in " El Hijo de Don Juan." It is not 
enough to say that Ibsen's " Gengangere," on which 
the Spanish play is admittedly founded, is almost 
bright and frolicsome in comparison. Mr. William 
Archer would consider that Echegaray has here 
chosen colors of funereal blackness, and has laid 
them on too heavily. Ibsen leads us to the edge of 
the abyss, and points to the pale faces of those whom 
his genius has condemned to immortal suffering ; but 



A SKETCH. 19 

he pulls us aside before we have time to become 
giddy. Echegaray drags us pitilessly down and holds 
us fast, while in our very presence his victims are 
whirled shrieking past us — borne along on burning 
winds, or stretched in agony upon the rack. But 
with all deductions, the enormous impressiveness of 
either dramatist, exalted by a pure, though terrifying 
moral, will not be denied. This impressiveness may 
be set down entirely to pathological causes, to the 
unwholesomeness of the subject, to the air of clinging 
gloom in which a pessimist like Ibsen, a teacher of 
Hebraic sternness like Echegaray, loves to fold him- 
self elaborately round. The effect of plays of this 
kind may or may not be wholly illegitimate ; at any 
rate it is, perhaps, completely unexampled. 

To put great things, the greatest of things, beside 
things not so great ; no two plays, judged from any 
aspect, could be more unlike, while still having for 
their central point of interest a similar theme, than 
" King Lear " and " El Hijo de Don Juan." In either 
drama the impending doom of madness on the hero 
overshadows, though it may not eclipse, all other 
interests. In our own tragedy there are scenes of 
violence — in one instance of soul-sickening violence — 
almost from the first page to the last. We hear the 
ring and storm of battle; there are mortal combats 
between brother and brother; there is murder by 
poison of sister by sister ; there is death by strangling 
of one of the noblest of heroines ; there is suicide by 
the knife ; there is the dying of old men from broken 
hearts. On the other hand, there is not a death, there 
is not a blow struck from beginning to end of " El 
Hijo de Don Juan." Yet, somehow, all the accumla- 
tions of misery and ferocity in the English tragedy, 
the stage strewn with corpses, the dead king lying 



20 JOSE ECHEGARAY : 

beside his murdered favorite child, seem to yield in 
the elements of sheer woe and hideous horror to the 
spectacle of the brilliant Lazarus, the poet, the drama- 
tist, the coming glory of Spain, waking from a trance 
under the anguished eyes of his father, his mother, his 
betrothed, and bursting into the ravings of a pro- 
nounced and hopeless madman. One certainly does 
not go away from the perusal of " King Lear " with a 
light heart, but one seems to start up from the reading 
of " El Hijo de Don Juan " as from an unban- 
ishable nightmare. 

Of Echegaray's use of dramatic resources when he 
indeed brings death upon the stage, two examples may 
be briefly noted. In " £1 Gran Galeoto" the exposure 
of the body of Julian to his unforgiven wife ; in 
" Mariana" the bloody sacrifice of the heroine by the 
husband whom she loathes and defies. Another 
example, more dangerously verging on the melodra- 
matic, may be encoantered in an earlier drama than 
these, "En el seno de la Muerte." It is one of the 
rare instances where Echegaray has chosen a purely 
romantic period for the scene of his play. A husband, 
treacherously wronged by the brother and the wife 
whom he had almost equally loved, contrives his 
revenge. He locks himself and the two culprits in 
the family mausoleum, of which he alone has the key 
and he alone knows the secret. He does not ignore, 
they do not ignore, the fact that there is no escape for 
any one of them. After a painful scene of reproach, 
he first throws the key which had locked them in, 
then the torch which had illumined the dismal mag- 
nificence of their surroundings, down a deep cavity 
that yawns between the monuments. He then stabs 
himself dead at his wife's feet ; and the curtain falls 
amidst an undefinable impression of lurid, vague 



A SKETCH. 21 

dismay and haunting consternation at the ghastly 
alternatives that await the entombed survivors. 

Echegaray is one more earnest recruit in the army 
of those who, in a fashion, vehemently repudiate 
Hamlet's doctrine that " conscience doth make cow- 
ards of us all." With him the voice of conscience 
is as the trumpet of an archangel, summoning man 
ever upward, "in the scorn of consequence," to the 
loftiest of deeds. Lorenzo, in " O Locura o Santidad," 
rich, powerful, moving in good social circles — though 
not of the highest — and surrounded by an ambitious 
family, rejects the alliance of a ducal house, and 
resigns himself to the prospect of utter ruin, because 
he finds himself to be the son of his old nurse, and in 
no w r ay entitled to the position which he holds. His 
frankness and self-denial have not the same happy 
result as in the case of Tennyson's " Lady Clare." 
He is regarded as a madman, and indeed, when his 
mother is dead — after having herself destroyed all 
confirmation of what she has made known to him — 
he consents to be thought mad, and to be torn away 
from his tranquil home, and shut up for the rest of his 
days in a lunatic asylum, that he may not, in the crisis 
of his daughter's fate, shatter her dream of love and 
happiness. In " El Gran Galeoto " Julian, in grateful 
remembrance of the man who had been his benefactor, 
makes that benefactor's impoverished son his own 
son and the master of his house, takes the place of 
the young man in a duel, receives a mortal wound, 
and is brought home to find, as he thinks, that the 
youth for whom he is dying has dishonored him in 
his absence. Lazaro, in " El Hijo de Don Juan," 
while a moment of respite is left to him from the 
affliction which is about to darken his brain for ever, 
refuses to be married to the girl whom he loves, that 



2 2 JOSE ECHEGARAY : 

she may not be chained for life to a cureless idiot. 
Marianaj with a characteristically eccentric reverence 
for her conscience, abandons all hope of happiness, 
and marries a suitor whom, in her heart, she hates, and 
who, she knows well, will kill her on the provocation 
that she deliberately means to give him ; and this 
grim self-sacrifice is decided upon in a moment, on 
her discovery of the fact that the man whom she really 
loves is the son of the villain who had ruined her 
mother — the mother whom she had sworn from child- 
hood to avenge. 

Echegaray has a genuine and, as a rule, unforced 
sense of humor. In his comic passages, however, he 
has a fault which he shares with Shakespeare — and the 
editor of Punch. He is a remorseless punster. 

This poet's genius, as may have been remarked, burst 
into bloom at a time beyond the midsummer of life. 
He was forty-two before his first drama was produced. 
That is twenty-one years ago. Since then his activity 
has never known exhaustion. He is now the author of 
some fifty plays. There are particular years among 
the past twenty-one in the course of which he has put 
upon the stage as many as four dramas, not one of 
which is carelessly written, though one imitation from 
the German, " El Gladiador de Ravena," was com- 
menced and completed within three days. During 
these twenty-one years, indeed, he appears to have 
determined on making up for what, in other important 
respects, had certainly not been lost time. Civil 
engineers have found and still find it to their advan- 
tage to consult him on points which are the special 
study and occupation of their lives. He has published 
three formidable volumes on the " Modern Theories 
of Physics." A well-known book of his has appeared 
on sub-marine vessels of war. He has lectured on 



A SKETCH. 23 

Political Economy and Geology with equal success. 
He is admitted by Spaniards to be the chief of their 
own mathematicians ; they further claim for him the 
honor of being one of the first mathematicians in the 
world. He is an orator who has won the applause of 
Castelar himself. There were only wanting his labors 
as a poet and a dramatist to set the seal upon a career 
of almost universal aptitude. Those labors have 
earned for him a renown which will assuredly not be 
allowed to die in his own country. 

Be the praise high or low, in view of the condition 
of Spanish literature between the seventeenth century 
and the nineteenth, Spaniards declare that for more 
than two hundred years their drama has not brought 
forth a serious rival to this man. And there can hardly 
be a doubt that, in any selection of names of the 
greatest dramatists ever sprung from Spain, Lope de 
Vega and Calderon de la Barca will find the place 
nearest to themselves occupied by Jose Echegaray. 



TWO WORDS BY WAY OF PROLOGUE. 



IN trying to interpret the idea of my last drama, 
"The Son of Don Juan," the critics have said 
many things. That the idea was the same as that 
which inspired Ibsen in his celebrated work entitled 
" Agengangere." That the passions which it sets in 
movement are more natural to the countries of the 
North than to our sunnier climes : that it deals with 
the problem of hereditary lunacy. That it discusses 
the law of heredity. That it is sombre and lugubrious, 
with no other object than that of arousing horror. 
That it is a purely pathological drama. That it con- 
tains nothing more than the progress of a case of 
lunacy. That from the moment when it is perceived 
that Lazarus will go mad, the interest of the work 
ceases, and nothing remains but to follow step by step 
the shipwreck of the poor creature — and so forth. I 
think that all this is but a series of lamentable equivo- 
cations on the part of the great and little judges of 
the dramatic art. The idea of my drama was not one 
of those mentioned. Its motive is very different, but 
I shall not explain it. Why should I ? In all the 
scenes of my work, in all its personages, in nearly all 
its phrases it is explained. Moreover, to explain it 



26 Prologue. 

would be dangerous; it might be imagined that my 
proposal was to defend the poor Son of Don Juan 
under the pretext of exposing the central idea from 
which he drew birth. I never defend my dramas ; 
when I write their last word I leave them to their fate. 
I neither defend them materially nor morally. I finish 
a drama, I give it to the management of a theatre, it is 
put on the stage, it is liked or not liked, according to 
the favor of God. The management does what is 
most suited to its interests, without my interference : 
the actors represent it as they can, almost always very 
well, the public pronounces its judgment in one sense 
or another, according to its feelings, and the critics 
unbosom themselves to their satisfaction. I neither 
wish nor ought, if only from good taste, to defend my 
new drama ; but it contains one phrase which is not 
mine, which is IbsetCsj and that phrase I must defend 
energetically, for I consider it one of extraordinary 
beauty : " Mother, give me the sun," says Lazarus. 
And this phrase, simple, infantile, almost comic, en- 
folds a world of ideas, an ocean of sentiments, a hell 
of sorrows, a cruel lesson, a supreme warning to society 
and to the family circle. Thus I look at it. A gene- 
ration devoured by vice; which bears even in its 
bones the virus engendered by impure love; with a 
corrupted blood which in its course drags along organ- 
isms of corruption mingled with its ruddy globules, 
this generation goes on falling and falling into the 
abysses of idiocy : the cry of Lazarus is the last twilight 
of a reason which founders in the eternal blackness of 
imbecility. And at the same time nature awakes and 
the sun comes forth — another twilight which will very 
soon be all light. And the two twilights meet and 
cross and salute each other with the salutation of 
everlasting farewell at the close of the drama. 



Prologue. 27 

Reason, which is precipitated downward, impelled by 
the corruption of pleasure. The sun, which springs 
upward with immortal flames, impelled by the sublime 
forces of nature. Below, human reason which has 
come to an end ; above, the sun which begins a new 
day. " Give me the sun,'* says Lazarus to his mother. 
Don Juan likewise asked for it from between the 
tresses of the woman of Tarifa. On this point there is 
much to be said : it gives room for much thought. 
For, in truth, if our society. . . . But what the devil 
are these philosophical speculations that I am plung- 
ing into ? Let every man compose such for himself 
as best he may, and let him clamor for the sun or 
beg for the horns of the moon, or ask for what suits 
his appetite. Does nobody understand or take an 
interest in these matters? What then? This, at 
most would prove that the modern Don Juan con- 
tinues to bequeath many sons to the world, though 
they have not the talent of Lazarus. Let us give a 
respectful greeting to the sons of Don Juan. 

Jose Echegaray. 



PERSONS OF THE DRAMA. 



Carmen. 

Dona Dolores. 

Paca. 

Teresa. 

Lazarus. 

Don Juan. 

Don Timoteo. 

Doctor Bermudez. 

Javier. 

Don Nemesio. 

First represented March 29, 1892. 



[Rights of adaptation and stage representation reserved] 



ACT I. 

The scene represents a room for business or study. It 
is mounted in elegant yet severe taste, with some- 
thing of a worldly style, indicated by soi7ie artistic 
object which betrays predilections of that kind. 
On the left of the spectator is a very light and 
charming tea-table to acco?nmodate th}'ee or four 
persons; upon the table is a candle or night-light 
with a bright-colored shade; and surrounding 
it are three small arm-chairs or cushioned seats 
and smoking chairs. On the right is a desk — not 
very large, though massive and sober in style: 
behind, a chair or writing stool. At the side of 
the desk a high stool or better still an arm-chair. 
Upon the desk a lighted lamp with a dark shade. 
Also on the desk, in a framed easel, the photograph 
of 'Carmen. On the left first wing a balcony, to 
the right a fireplace with a very bright fire : at 
one side a large portative screen. Over the doors 
and the balcony thick, sober-hued curtains. A 
door in the background, and a door at either side. 
If it be possible, there should also be in the back- 
ground a small bookcase, dark and rich : at the 
left forming a pendant, a cabinet, dark like the 
bookcase, and full of objects of art. If this be im- 
possible, two equivalent pieces of furniture. In 
short, a roo7n which gives evidence of rich though 



32 The Son of Don Juan. 

not opulent possessors, and which above all denotes 
the contrast of two tastes: — the one austere, the 
other gay and worldly. It is night. 



Scene. 

Don Juan, and Don Timoteo, Don Nemesio dis- 
covered seated round the tea-table, d?-inking strong 
liqueurs a7id smoking. The three are old, but 
give token of different types : the three bear the 
stamp of life-long self-indulgence. It is recognized, 
however, that Don Juan has been a man of gayety 
and fashion. 

Juan. Timoteo! 

Tim. What? 

Juan. I have a suspicion. 

Tim. What about ? 

Juan. That we are getting old. 

TixM. How have you got to know ? 

Juan. I '11 tell you : there are symptoms. When 
the weather changes all my joints are sore. When I 
wish to stretch out this leg merrily, it entails labor on 
me, and in the end it is the other leg which moves. 
Moreover my sight is failing: when I see a dark girl 
in the street, she looks fair to me; and if a girl 
happens to be fair, she becomes so obscured as to 
turn dark before my eyes. 

Nem. That's weakness; you should take a tonic. 
{Drinks.) 

Juan. My stomach does not resist alcohol yet: I 
drink out of compliment ; but I know that it does me 
harm. 

Tim. Because it is not the alcohol of our time. 



The Son of Don Juan. 33 

Nem. This is corrosive sublimate alcoholized. 

Tim. It is the alcohol which has grown old. 
{Walks about jauntily) I feel young still — Ah! 

Juan. What ? s the matter? 

Tim. While simply moving I seem to have dis- 
jointed my whole vertebral column. The devil, the 
devil ! 

Nem. (drinking calmly). Something or other will 
have got dislocated. 

Juan. Let us undeceive ourselves : we are nearing 
the City of Old Age. By the life of life, how short is 
life ! {Strikes the chair with his fist.) Ah ! 

Tim. What ails you ? 

Juan. A pain in the elbow — and in this shoulder. 

Nem. The weather ; it 's damp. (Drinks?) 

Tim. Juanito, you have never been very strong. 

Juan. I have not been? I have not been ? I have 
been stronger than you all. For twenty-four hours 
running I have played cards : for three days running 
I have been shut up with Pacorro and Luis emptying 
bottles : and my patron Saint Juan Tenorio, from the 
heaven where he dwells in company with Dona Inez, 
will have seen how I have borne myself in amorous 
enterprises. You, on the other hand, have been 
nothing more than the braggadocios of vice. Away 
with such lay-figures. 

Tim. We don't deny that you have been a greater 
madcap than anybody else ; but strong — what 's called 
a strong man — that you have not been. 

Nem. You have not been that — confess. 

Juan. What have I to confess ? 

Tim. Something has happened to you which never 
happened to any one else. 

Juan. What happened to me? 

Tim. In order to get your spine straightened you 
3 



34 The Son of Don Juan. 

had to be put in a casing of paste, and they used to 
hang you up by the neck twice a day. 

Juan. But that was because we were playing at 
single stick in the Plaza de Toros, and they broke 
two of my ribs ; that might happen to anybody. 

Tim. No, no : you were not like us. Do you re- 
member, Nemesio? "Where is Juanito?" " In 
bed." " Where is Juanito ? " " At Panticosa." 
"Where is Juanito?" "At Archena." "Where is 
Juanito ? " " Shut up in his casing." " Where is 
Juanito ? " " At this moment they must be hanging 
him." Ha, ha ! 

Tim. and Nem. laugh. Don Juan looks at them 
angrily. 

Juan. Don't laugh very loud, or we shall have a 
general breaking up. I have been a man and you 
two have been pitiful fellows. You (to Tim.), got 
married at forty : you locked yourself up in a corner 
of this town with your wife, and there was an end of 
Timoteo. You (to Nem.), flying like a coward from 
the storms of the world, took refuge in Arganda, 
where you drink each year the vintage of the year 
before. I, on the other hand (speaking with proud 
eniphasis\ I — it is true that I also got married — at 
forty-two; but that 's no proof of weakness. If Don 
Juan Tenorio had been allowed the time, he would 
have married Dona Inez, and indeed there is a rumor 
that they celebrated their mystic wedding in heaven. 
But I, the other Don Juan, got married like a man, 
like a free citizen ; but I did not thereupon abandon 
the field of honor. I am myself at home, myself 
abroad, at nine in the convent, at ten in this street. 
Well, then I had my Lazarus ! — Eh ! — There 's a 
lad ! That's what it is to have a son. 



The Son of Don Juan. 35 

Tim. God help me, with your glorious triumph ! 
Jump into the street, and you won't see a neighbor 
who is not the son of somebody. Each individual has 
a father. 

Nem. One father at least. 

Juan. Yes, but I was the libertine ; I was the man 
that drained the cup of pleasure and the cask from the 
wine-cellar : the invalid of the orgy. " That fellow 
is consumptive," they used to say. " That fellow will 
die some morning," you thought. And suddenly I 
became restored to life in Lazarus. Lazarus is my 
resurrection. And how robust and strong he is. And 
what talent he has ! A prodigy — a Byron, an 
Espronceda, an Edgar Poe — a genius. That 's not 
what I alone say: you have it written in all the 
journals of Madrid. 

Tim. Yes, the lad is able. 

Nem. He is able. 

Juan. Well, now, frankly — he who has led the life 
that I have led — he who while saying: " I must rest 
for a time," has a son like Lazarus : that man — is he 
not a man, indeed? 

Tim. Fine subject of rejoicing for a Tenorio. 

Juan. What subject? 

Tim. This of 3'ours. Does it not come to this that 
you are the father of a genius ? 

Juan. And what then, dotards? Strength is 
strength, and becomes transformed : you don't under- 
stand this. I make no doubt that I had all the genius 
of Lazarus concealed in some corner of my brain ; 
but as I gave it neither time nor opportunity it could 
not exhibit itself. At last it grew tired of wait- 
ing, and it said : " Eh ! I am going with the son, 
because with the father I can make no headway." 
{Laughing.) 



36 The Son of Don Juan. 

Tim. Don't delude yourself, Juanito. The talent of 
Lazarus, for indeed he seems to have great talent, is 
not inherited from you : he must have derived it from 
his mother. The paternal heritage will have been 
some rheumatism, some affection of the nerves. 

Nem. The sediments of pleasure and the dregs of 
alcohol. (Drinks.) 

Juan. Blockheads ! I went through my school- 
days badly, and I lived worse ; but there was some- 
thing in me. 

Tim. Quite a genius frittered away on a lost soul. 

Juan. It may be so. 

Nem. And by what did you recognize this some- 
thing? 

Tim. When was it ? 

Nem. And where ? 

Juan. It was on awaking from a drunken bout. 

Tim. Now that you are going to ascend to the 
sublime don't say a drunken bout. 

Juan. Well then, on arising from an orgy. 

Nem. That's well. " To Jarifa in an Orgy," 
Espronceda. (Drinks.) 

Juan. Yes, senor, the very thing. I once felt that 
which neither of you ever experienced. 

Nem. Tell us, tell us. This ought to be curious. 
Another little glass, Timoteo. 

Tim. Come. To the health of the disappointed 
genius. (Coughing.) 

Nem. Of the unsuccessful genius. (Drinks.) 

Don Juan is thoughtful. 
Tim. Begin. 

Juan. You remember the season we passed at 
my country seat in Sevilla, in the year — in the 

year ? 



The Son of Don Juan. 37 

Tim. The year I don't recollect — but very well 
do I remember the country-house, on the banks of 
the Guadalquivir, with an Oriental saloon, divans, 
carpets — those famous carpets. 

Nem. True, true ! I was always walking on them. 
Aniceta, the little gypsy — you remember? — used to 
cry out, " I am sinking, I am sinking." 

Tim. True, true ! and as she was so little she used 
to sink out of sight, really. 

Nem. Delightful time. Don Juan's country seat — 
so we called it. 

Tim. What I liked was that running balcony or 
gallery, or whatever it was. What a view! The 
Guadalquivir ! And it looked towards the East — you 
saw the sun rise — it was enchantment. (To Juan.) 
Have you fallen asleep ? 

Juan. I ? I never sleep. That 's what I should 
like — to sleep. For this is the way I pass the night — 
with a wrench of this nerve and a wrench at the other. 
The little pain which is in the neighborhood of my 
elbow goes for a walk. My cough appears before it 
and says, " Good evening, neighbor." My head 
cries out, " I am going to waltz for a while, stand 
away there." And my stomach heaves, " No, for 
God's sake; I shall be sea-sick." Sleep, indeed! 
It 's ten years since I have slept. 

Nem. But you are not telling us the story. 

Juan. What story ? 

Tim. W T hy, man, that about the fiery outbreak of 
genius. When you learned that you had something 
inside here. (Touching his forehead) Something 
sublime, eh? 

Nem. I should think so, corrosive sublimate. Ha, 
ha ! Another little glass. 

Tim. Come. However, we are left at where you 



38 The Son of Don Juan. 

got to know once upon a time that you were a lava- 
like genius — like the pulmonary larvae. 

Juan. I got to know it. There 's nothing to laugh 
at. 

Nem. In your country seat by the Gaudalquivir ? 

Juan. The very same. 

Tim. In the Oriental saloon — the one with the 
divans, the balcony looking towards the East and the 
Persian carpet? 

Juan. Exactly. 

Tim. During a night of orgies ? 

Juan. No — next morning — on awaking. 

Tim. On awaking from the orgy ! " Bring hither, 
Jarifa, bring hither thine hand — come and place it 
upon my brow ! " ( Taking the hand of Don.) 

Nem. {withdrawing his hand). Your brow is all 
right. Ha, ha ! Don't make me laugh. 

Tim. Then look — thine hand — a pure branch of 
the vine. 

Juan. Don't you want to hear me? 

Nem. I should think so. Tell your story. 

Tim. But you must tell it seriously, solemnly, 
dramatically. The awaking of Don Juan — after a 
night of orgies. 

Juan. Then here goes. 

Nem. and Tim. take convenient positions for 
listening to him. 

It was a grand night — a grand supper. There were 
eight of us — each with a partner. Everybody was 
drunk — even the Guadalquivir. Aniceta appeared on 
the gallery and began to cry out, " Stupid, insipid, 
waterish river, drink wine for once ! " and she threw 
a bottle of Manzanilla into it. 

Tim. She was very lively, Aniceta. She once 



The Son of Don Juan. 39 

threw a bottle of wine at my head — but it was 

empty. 

Nem. Your head ? 

Tim. The bottle. Continue, continue — but, seri- 
ously — eh ? 

Juan. Well, I was lying asleep along the floor, 
upon the carpet, close to a divan. And on the 
divan there had fallen by one of the usual accidents, 
the Tarifefia — Paca, the Tarifefia. Nobody noticed 
it, and on the divan she lay asleep. Amidst her 
tossings to and fro, her hair had become loose — a 
huge mass! and it fell over me in silky waves — a 
great quantity. 

Nem. Not like Timoteo's. (Timoteo is bald.) 

Juan. Not like Timoteo's. But if you interrupt 
me I shall lose the inspiration. 

Tim. Continue — continue, seriously, Juanito. 

Juan. We leave off at where I was asleep on the 
carpet, when the loosened hair of the Tarifefia fell 
over my head and face, enfolding me as in a splendid 
black mantle of perfumed lace. Would you like any- 
thing more serious ? 

Tim. It goes well so. 

Nem. Keep yourself to that height. 

Tim. To the height of the carpet ? 

Nem. Each one mounts to the height of which he 
is worthy. Go on. 

Juan. The dawn arrived. It was summer. 

Tim. And yet it rained. 

Juan. No, my dear fellow, a delightful morning: 
the balcony open : the East with splendid curtains of 
mist and of little red clouds, the sky blue and stain- 
less, a light more vivid kindling into flame the distant 
horizon. 

Tim. So, so-— to that height. 



40 The Son of Don Juan. 

Nem. Very poetical, very poetical — don't fall off. 

Juan. Slowly the crimson globe ascended. I 
opened my eyes wide, and I saw the sun. I saw it 
from between the interwoven tresses of the Tarifena 
— it inundated me with its light, and I stretched forth 
my hand instinctively to grasp it. Something of a 
new kind of love, a new desire agitated me. Great 
brightness, much azure, very broad spheres, vague 
yet burning aspirations — for something very beautiful. 
For a minute I understood that there is something 
higher than the pleasure of the senses : for a minute 
I felt myself another being. I wafted a kiss to the 
sun, and pulled aside in anger the girl's hair. One 
lock clung about my lips — it touched my palate and 
gave me nausea. I flung away the tress — I awoke 
the Tarifena — and vice dawned through the remains 
of the orgy, like the sun through the vapors of 
the night, its mists and its fire-colored clouds. 

Tim. Good for Juanito. We are moved, profoundly 
moved. 

Nem. Unf at horn ably moved. {Drinks.) 

Tim. But with what object have you told us all that 
I don't remember. 

Juan. To prove to you that there have existed 
within me noble aspirations. 

Tim. Ah ! yes, sublime desires. 

Nem. Superhuman longings. 

Juan. Quite so : and that everything which was 
deprived of the opportunity of making itself known 
in me, or which ran to waste through other channels 
will revive in my Lazarus in the forms of talent, 
inspiration, genius, wings that flutter, creations that 
spring forth, applause, glory, immortality. Ah ! you '11 
see — you '11 see. 

Tim. Your posthumous blowing off of steam. 



The Son of Don Juan. 41 

Juan. My last and most pure illusion — no, the 
only pure illusion of my existence. And you ought 
to be glad that my son is getting on so well, you 
scapegrace. (Giving Tim. a playful slap) 

Tim. I? 

Nem. Ah, ah ! I understand you. Another glass 
to the health of the bride and bridegroom. 

Juan. Eh ? What do you say ? (To Don T.) 

Tim. Ah, yes; no, it is impossible. My poor 
Carmen is very much in love : but I don't know if 
Lazarus 

Juan. Lazarus is mad about her. He is reserved 
enough, but he is mad. 

Tim. Well, look ; if the son is going to resemble the 
papa I should be very sorry to form the relationship, 
frankly. 

Juan. Much obliged to you, venerable grandfather. 

Nem. No, Lazarus is very steady. 

Tim. The fact is that my girl is very weak, very 
delicate, a sensitive plant. Her poor chest troubles 
her with the least thing; and if Lazarus were to lead 
my poor Carmen the life which you have led your 
wife, I should renounce the relationship and the 
honor which you propose to me. 

Juan. Gently, gently; I have been an irreproach- 
able husband. 

Tim. Oh! 

Nem. Ah! 

Juan. Irreproachable. My wife has always been 
first in my affections. 

Tim. But you have had a second, and a third 

Nem. And a fourth and a fifth. 

Juan. Those are lawful requirements of the system 
of numeration. 

Nem. Peace between the future fathers-in-law. The 



42 The Son of Don Juan. 

one is as good as the other; the one is just as gay as 
the other; and one is quite as sedate a father of a 
family as the other. 

Juan. And of course you will be better than we 
are! You who have been steeped in alcohol from 
your tenderest years. 

Nem. Between the bottle and the woman, I cling 
to the bottle. 

Tim. Well, I to the woman. 

Juan. Let us not exaggerate : being between the 
bottle and the woman one remains just the same — 
between the bottle and the woman. 

Tim. Not quite : we now remain at home between 
our own woman and the bottle of tisan — two tisans. 

Nem. Because you are a pair of dotards. I am 
every night at the theatre, in my little box : from ten 
to twelve I consecrate myself to art. Some dancers 
have come from Madrid. Sweet zephyrs ! Four 
zephyrs. 

Juan (in a loud voice and erecting himself like an 
old cock). Are they pretty ? 

Tim. Your wife will hear you. 

Juan {lowering his voice in exaggerated style)* 
Are they pretty ? 

Nem. Four flowers, four stars, four goddesses, the 
four cardinal points of beauty. What eyes ! What 
waists ! What vigor ! What cushion-like bodies. 

Juan. Cushion-like ? 

Nem. Nothing artificial. 

Juan. Nothing artificial? And you are going to 
the theatre now ? 

Nem. I go there to finish the night as God com- 
mands — in admiring the marvels of creation. (Rising.) 

Tim. Then I '11 accompany you, and we shall both 
admire them. (Rising.) v 



The Son of Don Juan. 43 

Juan. Well, I '11 not stay at home. I '11 go there 
with you two and we shall all three admire them. 
{Rising with difficulty?) 

Nem. At this time of night, Juanito ? 

Juan. You two are going at this time of night. 

Tim. And what will your wife say ? 

Juan. For twenty-five years my wife has said 
nothing. Besides, I give orders here. No one ever 
calls me to account. Ho, there, I '11 be back in a 
moment. Ho, there ! [Exit. 

Nem. I think that poor Juan is getting to the end 
of his tether. Don't you see how he walks? What 
things he says ! What pitiful senilities. 

Tim. Yet he is not very old. 

Nem. What should make him old? He is little 
more than sixty. Every man who respects himself 
is sixty years old {Walking about somewhat jauntily?) 

Tim. Precisely: you are sixty, I am sixty, every 
well-conditioned person is sixty. 

Nem. But he has lived ! What a life he has lived ! 
This is what I say : people may be guilty of follies : 
you have been guilty of them : I have been guilty of 
them 

Tim. And every well-behaved person is guilty of 
them. 

Nem. But up to a certain point. 

Tim. Up to a certain point. 

Nem. But poor Juan was old at forty. And Lazarus 
is not what his father says — no, senor. 

Tim. Well, talent — he has much talent. All the 
newspapers of Madrid assert it; you see it now. 
That he is a prodigy that he will be a glorv to the 
nation. 

Nem. I don't deny it. But walk with care before 
marrying little Carmen to him. 



44 The Son of Don Juan. 

Tim. Why ? The devil ! Why ? Is he like his 
father ? 

Nem. No ! Like the father — no. Inclined to gayety 
— yes. What would you have the son of Don Juan to 
be? 

Tim. Everybody is inclined to gayety. I am so, 
you are so — 

Nem. It is not that. It is that according to my 
information {lowering his voice) he is not so robust as 
the papa supposes. Lazarus suffers from vertigo — 
nervous attacks — what shall I say ? — something of 
that sort. At long intervals, it 's true ; but that head of 
his is not strong. That 's why he does such stupendous 
things, and that 's why they call him a genius. Don't 
trust men of genius, Timoteo. A genius goes along 
the street, and every one says, " The genius ! the 
genius!" He turns round the corner, and the little 
boys in the next street run after him shouting : " The 
madman ! the madman ! " Timoteo, it is very 
dangerous to have much cleverness. 

Tim. God deliver us from it. Oh ! as to that I 
have always been very careful. 

Nem. So have I. A man should not be altogether 
a fool ; that 's not well. But the thing is — don't be a 
genius. 

Tim. Never. Here 's Juan coming back. 

Nem. Say nothing to him of what I have told you. 
They either don't know of the sufferings of Lazarus, 
or they hide them ; it 's natural. 

Tim. Not a word ! but it 's well to know it. 
Re-enter Don Juan. 

Juan (dressed for going out). Are we ready? 

Tim. We are. 

Juan. Then let 's march. Listen. (To Tim.) Will 
you come back for Carmen, or must we take her? 



The Son of Don Juan. 45 

Tim. Carmen ? 

Juan. Yes, Carmen. Have you already forgotten 
that she is in there with Dolores ? 

Tim. It's true. 

Juan. What a head ! Ha, ha ! And you say that 

I ? He forgets his own daughter! It would 

have been easy for me to forget my Lazarus. What 
a fellow you are ! What a fellow you are ! Away 
with you for a pair of wooden-heads ! (Laughing) 

Tim. You gay young dog, lead us on to glory and 
to pleasure ! 

Juan. I shall lead you on to the cemetery if you 
annoy me any more. However, what do you decide ? 
Will you come back to fetch Carmen ? 

Tim. I shall have to come back to carry you home. 

Juan. You carry me ? You 'd never be able to 
carry any one. 

Nem. I shall carry you both. Come, give me your 
arm, Juanito. If not you can't go down the staircase. 
(Don Juan takes his arm.) 

Juan. Teresa — little Teresa. 

Teresa enters from the back centre. 

Ter. Senor? 

Juan. Tell Dolores — tell your mistress — that I am 
going out. Let Senorita Carmen wait until her 
father returns to fetch her. March on. (To Tim.) 
Take hold of me, for you are not very strong. Take 
hold of me. 

Tim. March on. 

Nem. March on. 

Juan. Military step ! One — two — 

Tim. (looking at Teresa). This girl 's prettier every 
day. 

Nem. (the same). And fresher. 



46 The Son of Don Juan. 

Juan (to Nem.). You are not looking ; you will fall. 

Ter. Where are you going, senor ? 

Juan. To take these two to the lunatic asylum. 

[Exeunt laughing and clutching each other's arms.'] 

Ter. (looking from the back). Well, when you get 
in there, may they never let you out. Where are 
those mummies going? 

Enter Dona Dolores and Carmen from the 
right* 
Car. Ah ! They are not here. Papa is not here. 
Dol. Have they gone out ? 

Ter. Yes, senora. But Don Juan left word that 
Senorita Carmen's papa would come back to take her 

home. 

Carmen coughs. 

Dol. Coughing again ! You ought not to go out 
at night; the doctor has forbidden you. You don't 
take care of yourself. You are a little simpleton. Sick 
children should be in their little homes. 

Car. When I am alone I am very sad. I had 
rather cough than be sad. 

Dol. Not so; I shall go and bear you company. 
And I shall bring Lazarus. I don't wish my sick 
child, my darling child to be melancholy. (Fondling 
her.) 

Carmen coughs. 
Again ! 

Car. It 's not worth speaking of. 

Dol. The fact is that no one can breathe here. 
What an atmosphere ! What smoke ! What a smell 
of tobacco. 

Ter. The three ancient gentlemen were all the 
night drinking and smoking and laughing. Now you 
see they have left everything. 

Dol. Yes, I see. (Looking with disgust at the 



The Son of Don Juan. 47 

little table which is full of ashes and ends of cigars 
and covered with bottles, glasses, and waiters' 1 trays?) 
Take these things away ; clean everything up ; open 
the balcony. I am not accustomed — yet after twenty- 
five years I should have grown accustomed. {Aside.) 
The poetry of existence ! {Laughing bitterly.) 

Car. What are you laughing at, Dolores ? 

Dol. {changing her tone and feigning m eminent.} 
I feel amused, very much amused at the frolics of 
those three venerable old men. 

Car. Papa is not yet an old man. 

Dol. He is not : but what a life he has led. {Re- 
collecting herself) So laborious — his business — his 
commerce — the same as Juan. 

Car. Ah yes: Parents are all alike, killing them- 
selves for their children. And papa is very good. 
He loves me — my God ! At night he gets up I don't 
know how many times and listens at the door of my 
room to know if I am coughing, so that I, who hear 
him, stifle the cough with my handkerchief or with 
the bed-clothes ; but sometimes I am not able — it is 
that I am choking. {Coughs.) 

Dol. {to Teresa who has been meanwhile taking 
away bottles, ash-trays, waiters'' trays, and who has 
entered and gone out several times). Open the 
balcony! Let in the fresh, pure air. No, wait. {To 
Carmen.) You could not bear the sensation, my 
poor little one. Come. {Taking her by the hand.) 

Car. Where to ? 

Dol. While the room is being ventilated you must 
remain like a quiet little girl behind this curtain. 
{Placing her behind the curtain to the right.) A quiet 
little girl, eh ? Afterwards you shall enter. 

Car. {laughing). Are you leaving me in punish- 
ment ? 



43 The Son of Don Juan. 

Dol. In punish merit ! Your father is very in- 
dulgent, I am very severe. 

Car. Good ; but your punishment does not las: 
long. 

Dol. Not very long. (To Teresa.) Go: I shall 
open it [ Exit Teresa. 

Dolores opens the calsony. 

^o ! Air — the air of night — 5; ace — freshness — that 
which is cure — that which is great — the: which does 
not revolt one — that which dilates the lungs — that 
which expands the soul! To have a very- bi 
horizon which cue may nil with hopes, and to run 
towards those hopes ! At least hope! Y^t\ Oh: 
I cannot complain. I have my Lazarus — then I have 
everything. 

Car. (putting he?' he.:r!fr:r\ ::>>:■: to time : : y;:-r' : 
the curtain . Can I Dome cut? 

Dol. No, not yet: wait — quiet, my little one. 
Walking from the balcony to the fireplace!) To havq 
my sen! But without him ever having had a father — 
above all. that father! Oh. if my Lazarus had 
sprung spontaneously from my love! Even as — as 
the wave of the sea or the light of the sun springs 
forth. After all. let me not complain — even if he 
resembled — though he does not resemble — his father, 
Lazarus is mine and mine only. How good ! How 
noble. What intellect! What a heart! 01:. ' 
it is t: have such a son! 

Car. May I come in \ 

Z : l. Ah. yes — wait though — I shall hrst shut the 
balcony. [Shuts it, Come in. 

Car. That "s very different. ^Breathing zvith 
pleas* 'V.) 

Dol. Ycu feel well ? 



1 



The Son of Don Juan. 49 

Car. Very well. 

Dol. What are you looking at ? 

Car. The clock — to see what time it is. It is 
getting late : Lazarus is not coming. {Sadly.) 

Dol. It is not late, my child. Come and sit by 
me. 

Car. Yes, it is late, it is late. 

Dol. Lazarus will come soon. He knew that you 
were coming this evening, and he will not fail. 

Car. {sorrowfully). But he would do wrong to 
inconvenience himself for me. Jf he does not see me 
now, he '11 see me another day. 

Dol. You silly child, are you complaining? 

Car. Not at all. My God ! He has his engage- 
ments, and he must not sacrifice himself for Carmen. 

Dol. Carmen deserves it all; and Carmen knows 
it ; don't be a little hypocrite. 

Car. No, senora, I speak as I think, and that's 
what gives me much pain and makes me quick at 
finding fault. You fondle me and love me, as if you 
were my own mother, now that I no longer have one. 
You watch over our love — the love of Lazarus and 
myself. I am sure you tell Lazarus that I am this 
and that — in short, a prodigy. And you swear to me 
that Lazarus is mad for the love of his Carmen. But 
is all this true? Can it be so? Am I worthy of 
Lazarus? Can such a man as he feel the passion 
which you describe to me for a poor creature like 
myself. 

Dol. Come, now — I shall get vexed. Don't say 
such things. Why, have you never looked into the 
glass ? 

Car. Yes, many times — every day. 

Dol. And what does the glass tell you ? 

Car. That I am very pale, that I am very thin, 
4 



50 The Son of Don Juan. 

that I have very sad eyes, and that I rather resemble 
a mother of sorrows than a girl of eighteen. That 's 
what it tells me, and it causes me a rather unpleasant 
feeling. 

Dol. There are very malevolent mirrors, and yours 
is one of them. {In a comic /one.) They take the 
form of boats to give us long faces ; they get blurred 
to make us pale ; they become stained to sow freckles 
all over our skins ; and they commit every kind of 
wickedness. Yours is a criminal looking-glass ; I '11 
send you one in which you may see what you are, and 
you shall see an angel gazing through a tiny window 
of crystal. 

Car. Yes. (Laugh.) But even if I were the most 
beautiful woman in the world, could I be worthy of 
Lazarus? A man like him! A future such as his ! 
A talent which all admire. Nay, a superior being. I 
love him much ; but it makes me afraid and ashamed 
that he should know that I love him so much. I feel 
as if he were going to say to me : " But who are you, 
you little simpleton? Have you imagined that I am 
meant for an unsubstantial, ignorant, sickly little thing 
like you ? " (Sadly a7id humbly.) 

Dol. Well, Carmen, if you don't wish to make me 
angry, you will not talk such folly. A good woman is 
worth more than all the learned men of all the Acade- 
mies o And if, as well as being good, she is pretty, 
then — then there 's an end, there is no man who is 
worthy of her. Men, with the exception of Lazarus, 
are either mean-spirited wretches or heartless devils. 
(In a rancorous tone.) 

Car. Well, papa is very good, and is very fond of me. 

Dol. Ah, yes — a very good person. But, if he had 
been so fond of you, he would have done better to give 
you stronger lungs. * 



The Son of Don Juan. 51 

Car. But, poor man, how is he to blame? If God 
did not wish 

Dol. Ah ! yes, that 's true. It is not Don Timoteo's 
fault. It was God's disposition that Carmen should 
have no more breathing powers than those of a little 
pigeon, and we must be resigned. 

Car. Well, that 's what I say. But Lazarus is not 
coming. You '11 see that I shall have to go away 
before he comes. And, if he comes and sets to work, 
I shall be as little likely to see him to-night. 

Dol. No ; he has not written for some days. The 
excess of work has fatigued him. This constant 
thought is very wasting. 

Car. But is he ill ? {With great anxiety.) 

Dol. No, child ; fatigue, and nothing more. 

Car. Yes ; he is ill. I noticed that he was sad, 
preoccupied, but I thought, " There, it is that he does 
not love me, and he does not know how to tell me so." 

Dol. What things you imagine ! Neither the one 
nor the other. My Lazarus ill ! Do you think that if 
he had been so I would not have set in motion all the 
first medical faculty here, and in Madrid, and in foreign 
parts ? In any way, however {somewhat uneasily), you 
are right ; he is very late. 

Car. Did he go to the theatre? 

Dol. No, to dine with some friends. 

Car. Did Javier go ? 

Dol. He went also. 

Car. I am glad ; Javier is very sensible. 

Dol. So is Lazarus. 

Car. I should think so ; but a good friend is never 
superfluous, and Javier has admiration, affection, and 
respect for Lazarus. 

Dol. [walking about impatiently). Still, it is get- 
ting late — very late. 



52 The Son of Don Juan. 

Carmen turns towards the balcony* 

What are you going to do ? 

Car. Well, to watch and see if Lazarus is coming. 

Dol. {drawing her away from the balcony). No, 
child ; you don't think of your poor chest, nor of that 
most obstinate cough of yours. Moreover, the night 
is very dark, and you could see nothing. Come away, 
Carmen, come away ; I '11 watch. 

Car. If I can't see, neither will you see 

Dol. I shall try. 

Car. Wait ; I think he is coming, and with Javier. 

Dol. {listening). Yes — it 's true. 

Car. Are they not coming in here ? 

Dol. No; they have gone straight to the room of 
Lazarus. But don't be uneasy ; as soon as he knows 
that you are here, he will come to see you. 

Car. Without doubt he comes back thinking of 
some great scene for his drama, or of some chapter 
of that book which he is writing and which they say 
is going to be a miracle of genius, or of some very 
intricate problem. Ah ! my God, whatever you may 
say, a man such as he cannot concern himself very 
much about an insignificant girl like myself. 

Dol. Again ! 

Car. I know nothing, I am worth nothing, I am 
nothing. I ? What am I fit for ? Tell me. To stare 
at him like a blockhead while he is considering these 
great matters ; to watch at the balcony and see if he 
is coming, although it may be cold, and Carmen 
coughs incessantly ; to weep if he takes no notice of 
me, or if they tell me that he is ill. There is no doubt 
that little Carmen is capable of doing wonders. To 
look at him, to wait for him, to weep for him. 

Dol. And what more can a woman do for a man? 



The Son of Don Juan, 53 

To look at him always, to wait for him always, to weep 
for him always. 

Car. And is that enough? 

Dol. So much the worse for Lazarus if that should 
not be enough for him. But wait ; he 's here now ; 
did I not tell you? as soon as he knew you were here. 

Car. (joyfully). It 's true. How good he is. 

Enter Javier. 

Jav. A pleasant evening, Dona Dolores; pleasant 
evening, Carmen. 

Dol. A very good evening. 

Car. And a very pleasant — but — Lazarus 

Dol. Is not Lazarus coming? 

Car. Is he ill? 

Dol. Ah! if he is ill, I must go there 

Jav. (stopping her). No, for God's sake ! What 
should make him ill? Listen to me. We and several 
friends have been dining with two writers from Madrid 
— people of our profession. We spoke of arts, of 
sciences, of politics, of philosophy, and of everything 
divine and human. We drank, we gave toasts, we 
made speeches, we read verses. You understand? 
And these things excite in an extraordinary way the 
nervous system of Lazarus. 

Dol. And has anything gone wrong with him ? 
My God! 

Car. Go, Dolores — go! 

Jav. For the sake of God in heaven, let me con- 
clude. These things, I say, shake his nerves, and his 
imagination becomes on fire ; it soon discovers lumi- 
nous horizons ; the ideas rush upon him precipitately. 
Could you take upon yourselves the burden of them ? 
No; that which came with the fever of inspiration he 
wished to take advantage of, and for that reason — 



54 The Son of Don Juan. 

precisely for that reason — he locked himself up in his 
room and sent me away. 

Car. (sadly to Dolores). Did I not say so ? He 
would come — and to work. 

Dol. Does he not know that Carmen is here ? 

Jav. They told us that on our entrance; but he 
pays attention to nothing, to nobody, when inspiration 
and glory and art cry aloud to him, " Come, we are 
waiting for you." 

Dol. However (Wishing to go.) 

Car. No, for God's sake ! (Stopping her.) He 
must be allowed to work. If through me he should 
lose any of those grand ideas which now hover fondly 
about him, what pain and what remorse for me ! 
Disturb him that he may come and speak to me? 
No, not so ; I am not so selfish. I asked for nothing 
better. By no means can I consent. (Embraces 
Dolores ; coughs and almost weeps.) 

Dol. (with anxiety). What 's the matter with you? 

Car. {affecting merriment). Nothing; it is only 
that I had begun to laugh and cough at the same time. 
I laughed because I was reminded of a tale — a very 
silly tale, which made me laugh, however, and which 
fits the case. You shall judge. There was a very 
sprightly little female donkey, which became enam- 
oured of a most beautiful genius, who bore on his 
forehead a very red little flame, and had very white 
wings ; and the bright genius, out of pure compassion, 
fondled the ears of the little donkey; and she, in 
accordance with her nature, began to leap for joy, and 
it overthrew the genius, clipped his wings, and he 
could fly no more. The blue of the firmament was 
cut off from the genius, and there was left to him 
nothing more than a very green meadow, a little 
female donkey who was very good, but who was, after 



The Son of Don Juan. 55 

all, a donkey. No, mother, I don't wish to be the 
heroine of the story. Let us allow the genius to fly. 

Dol. {to Javier). See what a creature she is ! 

Jav. A criminal humility. 

Dol. But, indeed, if you persist, we shall let him 
work. 

Car. Don't you think we might let him have this 
room free to himself? Here he has his books of 
predilection, and he has more room, and he can walk 
about ; he has told me many times that he composes 
verses while walking about. 

Dol. A good idea ! Let us go to my sitting-room. 
{To Javier.) Tell him that we abandoned the field 
to him, and that he may come without fear. 

Jav. (laughing). Noble sacrifice ! 

Dol. But we'll have to stoke the fire; since we 
opened the balcony a while ago the room has become 
very cold. (Stoking the fire.) 

Car. It 's true. But let him not receive the full 
heat. We must place the screen in front — so. 
(Places it.) 

Dol. It is well — so. 

Car. (going to the balcony and raising the curtain). 
Look — look! The sky has become a little cleared, 
and the moon has issued from the clouds. Very 
beautiful ! Very beautiful ! We must draw the 
curtain back, that Lazarus may see it all and be the 
more inspired. I know he likes to work while gazing 
towards the heavens from time to time. 

Dol. (running to help Carmen). You are right ; 
you think of everything. 

Jav. Well, if after so many precautions and such 
endearments the inspiration is not responsive, the 
inspiration of Lazarus is hard to please. 

Car. Is everything ready now? 



5 6 The Son of Don Juan. 

Dol. I think so. Wait — your portrait is hidden in 
the shade. We must place it so that the lamp may 
throw light on it, so that he may be inspired by it 
also. 

Car. I inspire him? Yes — yes! Take jt away. 
( Wishing to reinove it.) 

Dol. I shall not allow it. Let it remain where I 
have put it, and let us go. 

Car. If you insist — well, then let him see it. But 
there is not much light. {Turning up the light of the 
lamp?) 

Dol. {to Javier). Call him — let him come. 

Car. Yes, let him come and write something very 
beautiful. Then I shall enter for a moment, to bid 
him good-night. 

Dol. Until then — come, Carmen. 

Car. {to Javier). And you, too, leave him alone; 
you must not have any more privileges than we. 

Dol. Are you coming to keep us company? 

Jav. Later on. 

Car. Is everything in order ? (Looking round.) 

Dol. I think so. Adieu. 

Car. Adieu! 

[Exeunt to left Carmen and Dolores, half 
embracing each other. 

Jav. The field is clear. Poor women ! How they 
love him ! It is adoration. {Going to right?) Lazarus ! 
Good-for-nothing ! Now you can come — come, if you 
can ! 
Enter Lazarus, pale, somewhat in disorder, and with 

unsteady step j in short, as the actor may think fit. 

Laz. {looking abouf). Are they not here ? 

Jav. No; fortunately it occurred to them that you 
would work better alone. 



The Son of Don Juan. 57 

Laz. Well, whatever you say, I think that I am 
presentable. Eh? My head doesn't feel bad — a 
delicious vagueness. I seem to be encircled by a 
mist — a very soft mist ; and through its texture there 
shine some little stars. In short, peaceful sensations, 
very peaceful. 

Jav. That's to say, you are better? 

Laz. Don't I tell you so? My legs indeed give 
way, but without pain. I walk in the midst of softness. 
{Laughing.) My head among the clouds and the 
ground of cotton-wool. Divine ! So ought the 
universe to be — that is, quilted. Lord ! what a world 
has been made of it — so rough, so hard, so inconve- 
nient. At every step you stumble and injure yourself 
— rocks, rugged stones, sharp points, peaks, angles, 
and little corners and big corners. The world should 
be round — quite so, and round it is; roundness is 
perfection; but it should be an immeasurable sphere 
of eider-down, so that, if a citizen falls, he may always 
fall amid softness — thus ! {Letting himself fall in the 
arm-chair, or on one of the cushioned stools at the side 
of the tabled) 

Jav. All very well — but you really are not strong. 

Laz. I am not strong? Stronger than you — stronger 
than you. Stronger. 

Jav. I told you that you should not drink. It does 
you harm ; your health is broken down. 

Laz. I 'm broken down? I? — How? I have not 
been a saint, but neither have I been a madman. I 
am young: I have always thought that I was strong: 
and, through drinking two or three glasses, and 
smoking a puro and laughing a little — here am I 
transformed into a stupid being ! Because, now, it is 
not that I am broken down, as you say, nor that I am 
drunk, as you suppose — it is that I feel simply stupid. 



58 The Son of Don Juan. 

No; and see, now, it is not so disagreeable to be 
stupid : one feels — a sort of merriment, as it were. 
That 's why so many people are merry. {Laughing?) 
That 's why ! That 's why ! Now I am falling into 
this same stupidity that's why, just so. 

Jav. Attend to me, and understand what I say to 
you, if you are in a condition to understand me. 

Laz. If I can understand you? I understand 
everything now. The world is transparent to me : 
your head is made of crystal (laughing), and written 
in very black and tortuous letters I read your 
thought — you suppose I am very bad. Poor Javier ! 
(Laughing?) 

Jav. Don't talk such rubbish : I neither think such 
a thing, nor are you really ill. Fatigue, weariness — 
nothing more. You have lived very fast in Madrid 
during the last few years : you have thought much, 
you have worked much, you have had a good deal of 
pleasure, and you need a few months' rest — here — in 
your father's house, with your mother, with Carmen. 

Laz. Carmen — yes — look at her. (Pointing to the 
photograph.) There she is. How sad, how poetical, 
how adorable a countenance. I wish to live for her. 
With all the glory that I achieve I shall make a circle 
of light for that dear, pretty little head. (Sends a kiss 
to the portrait?) We 'shall live together, you and I, 
my sweet little Carmen, and we shall be very happy. 
(As if speaking with her.) For I wish to live. 
(Growing excited and turning to Javier.) If I had 
never lived it would never have suggested itself to me 
that I should continue to live : but I have commenced, 
and I don't wish to break off so soon. No — no — it 
shall not be — as God lives. 

Jav. Come, Lazarus. 

Laz. I am strong. Why should I not be so ? 



The Son of Don Juan. 59 

What right has nature to make of me a feeble creature 
when I wish to be strong? My thought burns, my 
heart leaps, my veins abound with the exuberance of 
life, my desires are aflame ! To put steam of a thou- 
sand atmospheres into an old and rusty boiler ! Oh 1 
infamous mockery ! 

Jav. Eh ! There you are, started off ! What 
steam, or what boiler ? The little glass of cham- 
pagne. 

Laz. A man like myself cannot be tormented with 
impunity. Here you have the world: it is yours: 
run merrily through its valleys, mount its summits in 
triumph ! But you shall not run, you shall not 
mount, unless rheumatism is planted in your bones. 
Here you have the azure firmament : it is yours : fly 
among its altitudes, gaze upon its horizons. But you 
shall not fly except the plumage of your wings be 
wrenched away and you become a worm-eaten car- 
cass. What derision! What satire ! W T hat cruelty ! 
Accursed wine ! What extravagant things I see, 
Javier ! Colossal figures in masks float across the 
firmament, and hang from very long strings, which 
are suspended from very long canes ; they bear suns 
and splendors and stars, and they sweep onward 
crying, " Hurrah ! hurrah ! " 1 and I wish to reach all 
that I cannot touch, even one little star with my lips. 
Grotesque, very grotesque ! Cruel ! very cruel ! 
Sorrowful, very sorrowful ! My God ! My God ! 
{He hides his face hi his hands.) 

Jav. Come, Lazarus, come. You see you cannot 
commit even the slightest excess. 

Laz. I have uttered many follies, have I not ? No 

1 The original "al higui ! al higui! " is a term of rejoicing 
peculiar to children in their games. It is only used in the South 
of Spain. 



60 The Son of Don Juan. 

matter : no one hears me but you, and it 's a relief to 
me. See, now I am more composed. I feel tired, 
and I even think I am sleepy. 

Jav. That would be best for you : sleep, sleep, 
and let neither your mother nor Carmen see you 
thus. 

Laz. As for my mother, it would not matter. 
(Smiling.) But, Carmen — let not Carmen see me 
looking ridiculous. The poor girl who imagines that 
I am a superior being ! Poor child, what a joke ! 
{Stretches himself on the sofa.) 

Jav. Good ; now don't speak. I shall not speak 
either, and try to sleep. With half an hour of sleep 
everything will pass off. 

Laz. Sleep, too, is ridiculous at times. If I am 
very ridiculous don't let Carmen see me. 

Jav. No ; if you don't look as beautiful as Endy- 
mion she shall not enter. 

Pause. Javier walks about. Lazarus begins to 
sleep. 

Laz. Javier, Javier. 

Jav. What? 

Laz. Now I am — almost asleep. How do I look? 

Jav. Very poetical. 

Laz. Good — thank — you. Very poetical. 
A pause. 

Jav. No, Lazarus is not well. I shall speak to 
his father — no, not to Don Juan. To his mother, 
who is the only person of sense in this house. 

Laz. Javier. 

Jav. What do you want ? 

Laz. Put Carmen's picture more to the front. 

Jav. So? 

Laz. So. For her — the light; for Lazarus — the 
gloom. 



The Sox of Don Juan. 61 

Jav. [walking about slowly). Yes, I shall speak to 
his mother. And — happy coincidence! I had not 
remembered that the celebrated Doctor Bermudez, a 
specialist in all that relates to the nervous system, has 
arrived within the last few days. Then to him ! let 
them consult with him. 

Laz. (now almost asleep). Javier. 

Jav. But you are not going to sleep ? 

Laz. Yes — but more in the light — more in the light. 
( With a somewhat sorrowful accent?) 

Jav. Come (placing the portrait close to the light ) — 
and silence. 

Laz. Yes . . . Carmen ! . . . 

Jav. (contemplating him for a while). Thank God 
— asleep. 

Dolores, Carmen, Don Juan, and Timoteo appear 
at ihe threshold of the door at the back ce7itre. 

Car. Can we come in ? 

Jav. Silence ! 

Car. It was to say good-night. 

Jav. He is asleep. He worked a short time, but he 
was fatigued. 

Car. Then let us not disturb him. Adieu, Javier. 
The light is in his eyes — you should lower the shade. 
Adieu. (Kissing Dolores.) Adieu, Don Juan. 

Tim. (to Dol.). Till to-morrow. (To Don J.) Till 
to-morrow. 

Juan. Nor shall we let to-morrow go by. I shall 
pay you a solemn visit — and prepare yourself, little 
rogue (to Carmen). 

Car. I? 

Juan. Silence, he is asleep. 

Tim. Good, good. Ah! it is late. Good-by. 



62 The Son of Don Juan. 

Dol. Good-by, my daughter. 

All have spoken in low voices. 

{Exeunt Carmen and Timoteo. 

Dol. {approaching Javier). Did he work long? 

Jav. A short time, but with great ardor. A great 
effort of intellect. 

Juan (approaching also and contemplating Laza- 
rus). Lord, to think of what this boy is going to be ! 
The face foretells it. The aureola of talent ! 

Dol. He is very pale — very pale. 

Juan. What would you have him to be ? Fat as a 
German, and red as a beetroot? Then he would not 
be a genius. 

Dol. However — such pallor ! 

Juan and Dolores are bent over Lazarus contem- 
plating him with affectionate care. 

Juan. I am decidedly the father of a genius, and 
then (to Javier) they come to me with 

Jav. With what? 

Juan. With nothing. (Aside.) With moral ser- 
mons, and with the law of heredity, and with all that 
stale trash. The father a hair-brained fellow, and 
the son a wise man. 

Dol. But has nothing been amiss with him ? Was 
it nothing more than fatigue ? 

Jav. Nothing more. You may withdraw : I shall 
stay until he awakes. 

Juan. I shall not withdraw. I was wanting 
nothing better. I shall sit down here (sitting at the 
other side of the table), and from here I shall watch 
the sleep of Lazarus. You remain on foot, in honor 
of the genius. Keep away, keep away from before 
him, that you may not prevent me from seeing my 
son. 






The Son of Don Juan. 63 

Dol. Yet the sleep is not very restful. 

Juan. How should it be restful, woman, since he 
will be busied with great matters in his dreams ? 

Dol. My Lazarus. 

Jav. {aside). Poor Lazarus. 

Juan {laughing quietly). Don Juan Tenario — 
watching the sleep — of the son of Don Juan ! — silence 
— silence — let 's see it we snail hear anything from the 
son of Don Juan. {With pride and tenderness,) 



END of act I. 



ACT II. 

Same appointments as in first Act. It is day. On 
the little table are flowers. Dox Juan discovered- 
seated close to the tea-table. Lazarus ,:.':. 
covered. He sometimes walks about; aga\ 
sits down: he tries to write, he throws away the 
pen. He opens a book and reads for a few 
moments, closes it irritably mmes his 

walking about. It is evident that he is uneasy 
and nervous. All this in the course of the scene 
with his father. Dox Juan follows him with 
his eyes and smokes a puro. 

JUAN. What are you thinking of? Ah! pardon ! I 

must not disturb you. 

Laz. You dorli disturb me, father. I was thinking 
of nothing important. My imagination was wander- 
ing, and I was wandering after it. 

JUAN. If you wish to work — to write — to read — 
and I trouble you I shall go. Ha, I shall go. (Rising) 
Do you want me to go ? for here I am going. 

Laz. Xo, father, good gracious ! You disturb me ! 

Juan (sitting down again). The fact is, as you 
see, that which I do can be done anywhere. It is in 
substance nothing. Well, for the performance of 
nothing any point of space is good. (Laughing?) Of 
space ! There are your philosophical offshoots taking 



The Son of Don Juan. 65 

root in me. The father in space, the son in the fifth 
heaven. That 's why I say if I disturb 

Laz. No, father, don't go away; and let us talk of 
what you please. 

Juan. Much good you'd get by talking with me. 
To your great books, to your papers, to those things 
which astound by their greatness and are admired 
for their beauty ! Continue — continue! I shall see 
you at work. I, too, shall busy myself with some- 
thing. {Pulls the bell?) 

Laz. As you like. [Sits down and writes fitfully. 
Enter Teresa. 

Juan. Little Teresa — {Looking at his son and cor- 
recting himself.) Teresa, bring me a glass of sherry 
and a few biscuits ; I also have to busy myself with 
something. And bring me the French newspapers ; 
no, nothing but Figaro and Gil Bias. {To his son.) 
And so we shall both be at work. {To Teresa.) 
Listen — by the way, bring me that novel which is 
in my room. You can read, can't you ? 

Ter. Yes, sefior. 

Juan. Well, then, a book which says Nana — you 
understand ? 

Ter. Yes, sefior. Nd-na. — For no is na\ 

Juan. It is something, little girl, — (aside) some- 
thing that you will be in time. [Exit Teresa. 

Laz. {Rises and walks about — aside.) I have no 
ideas. To-day I have no ideas. Yes, I have many; 
but they come like a flight of birds ; they flutter about 
— and they go. 

Juan. See now — I cannot bear immoral novels. 

Laz. You said . . . ? 

Juan. Nothing ! I thought that you said something. 
I said that I cannot endure immoral novels. {Assum- 
5 



66 The Son of Don Juan. 

ing airs of austerity?) I read them, I read " Nana," 
out of curiosity, as a study, but I can't bear them. 
Literature is in a lost condition, my son, in a lost 
condition. Nemesio lent me that book — and I am 
anxious to have done with it. 

Laz. Zola is a great writer. {Aside.) This is the 
very thing that I was looking for. (He sits a?id writes.) 

Enter Teresa with a tray, a bottle of sherry, a 
glass and the biscuits, " Nana " a?id the two 
newspapers. 

Ter. Here is everything. The sherry : the news- 
papers just come, the tender little biscuits, and the 
tender little A r ana (baby) as well. (She stands looking 
at the two gentlemen.) 

Juan. Bring the sherry closer, Teresa. — Work, boy, 
work. Take no notice of me. Work, for it is thus 
that men attain success. I also in my youth have 
worked much. That 's the reason I look so old. 
(Staring at Teresa who laughs.) (Aside?) What *s 
that stupid girl laughing at? — {To Teresa.) Now, 
you may go. I don't want you. The Gil Bias ! 
{Unfolds it and begins to read it.) Let us have a look 
at these wretched little newspapers. . . . {affecting 
contempt). I told you to go. — (To Teresa.) — Let 's 
see, let's see. {Reads.) 

Ter. Yes, senor. {She remains for a while looking 
at the two, and turns towards the door in the back 
centre) 

Laz. {rising). Teresa — 

Ter. Senorito — 

Laz. Come here and speak lower: let us not dis- 
turb your master, who is reading. Did you take the 
letter which I gave you this morning ? 

Ter. Yes, senorito, I took it myself. Whatever 
you require me to do, senorito ! , 



The Sox of Don Juan. 67 

Laz. Good. It was for Sefior Bermudez, eh? 

Ter. Yes, senorito. That doctor who has such a 
great name, who has come from Madrid for a few 
days to cure Don Luciano Barranco — the same who, 
they say, is either mad or not mad. {Laughing?) 

Laz. {starting then restraining himself). Ah ! 
Yes. Quite so; the same. And did you see him? 
Did you hand him the letter? Did he give you the 
answer? Where is it? Come, quick! 

Ter. Eh, senorito — 

Laz. Come — 

Ter. I gave the letter : he was not in : — they 
said — 

Laz. Lower — {Looking at his father who laughs 
while reading the newspaper.) 

Ter. They said that as soon as he came back they 
would give him the letter. Have no fear, senorito. 
Whatever little I take charge of ! Well, if I do nothing 
worse than — 

Laz. It's well — thanks. {Dismissing her, then 
recalling her.) Oh! if they bring the answer — here 
on the instant — eh ? 

Ter. On the instant : I should think so ! have no 
fear, senorito. 

Laz. Enough ! let us not trouble my father. 

[Exit Teresa. 

Juan. Ha! ha! ha! Facetious, very facetious! 
sprightly, very sprightly ! Pungent as a capsicum 
from the Rioja ! It is the only newspaper that one 
can read ! 

Laz. Some interesting article? What is it? What 
does it say ? Let me see ! {Approaching and stretch- 
ing out his hand,) 

Juan {keeping back the newspaper). A very shame- 
less little article — and quite without point. It must 



68 The Son of Don Juan. 

be put away. {Puts it in a pocket of his dressing- 
gown, but in such a way that it may be seen.) May 
the devil not so contrive things that Carmen may 
come and find the newspaper and read it in all 
innocence. 

Laz. {withdrawing). It is true: you do well! 
{Walks about nervously.) 

Juan {aside). And I had not finished reading it: 
I shall read it afterwards. (Takes up " Nana.") This 
also is good. The spring with all its verdure. {Aloud?) 
Work, boy, work ! 

Laz. {aside). I shall speak to the Doctor this very 
day, that he may set my mind at ease. I know that 
nothing is the matter with me ; but I want a specialist 
to assure me on the point. And then, with mind 
at peace — to my drama, to my critico-historical work, 
to my aesthetic theories which are new, completely 
new — and to Carmen. And with the muse at one 
side, recounting marvels in my ear, and with Carmen 
on the other side, pressed against my heart — to enjoy 
life, to inhale the odor of triumphs, to live for love, 
to satiate my longings amidst eternal mysteries. 

Juan. Stupendous! Monumental! Sufficient to 
make one die of laughing. Lord, why does a man 
read? To be amused, then books that are amusing 
for me ! {Laughing?) 

Laz. Is that a nice book? 

Juan {changing his tone). Pshaw — yes — pretty 
well. But these frivolous things are tiresome after 
all. {Sees Lazarus coming towards him, and puts 
" Nana " into the other pocket of the dressing-gown.) 
Have you anything substantial to read — really 
substantial ? 

Laz. I have many large books. What class do you 
want ? 



The Son of Don Juan. 69 

Juan. Something serious ; something that instructs 
you, that makes you think. 

Laz. {going to the bookcase). Would you like 
something of Kant ? 

Juan. Of Kant? Do you say of Kant? Quite so I 
he was my favorite author. When I was young I 
went to sleep every night reading Kant. (Aside.) 
What will that be ? It sounds like a dog. 

Laz. {searching out a passage). If you like, I shall 
tell you. 

Juan. No, my lad; any part whatever! {Taking 
the book?) Yes, this may be read at any part. You 
shall see. And don't concern yourself with me ; write, 
my son, write. 

Lazarus sits and attempts to write. Don Juan 
reads. 

" Under the aspect of relationship, the third con- 
sequence of taste, the beautiful appears to us as the 
final form of an object, without representation of 
end." The devil ! {Holding the book far off , as long- 
sighted people do and contemplating it with terror.) 
The devil! li or as a finality without end." Whoever 
can understand this? "Because what is called final 
form is the causality of any conception whatever with 
relation to the object." Let me see — let me see. 
(Holding the book still further off.) " Final form the 
causality." I believe I am perspiring. (Wipes his 
forehead.) " The consciousness of this finality without 
end is the play of the cognitive forces." How does 
he say that? "The play of the forces — the play." 
Well, I ought to understand this about play. "The 
consciousness of this internal causality is that which 
constitutes the aesthetic pleasure." If I go on it will 
give me a congestion. Jesus, Mary and Joseph I 



70 The Son of Don Juan. 

And to think that Lazarus understands about the 
finality without end, the causality and the play of the 
cognitive forces ! God help me ! What a boy ! — 
(continues reading). 6i The principle of the formal 
convenience of nature is the transcendental principle 
of the force of Judgment." {Giving a blow on the 
table.) I shall be lost if I continue reading. But if 
that boy reads these things he will go mad. 

Laz. Does it interest you ? 

Juan. Very much ! What depth ! {Aside.) For 
five minutes I have been falling, and I have not 
reached the bottom. {Aloud.) I should think it does 
interest me ! But, frankly, I prefer — 

Laz. Hegel? 

Juan. Exactly. {Aside) — " Nana." But you, my son, 
neither read, nor write : you are fretful. What 's the 
matter with you? Did the hunting tire you? Yet 
the exercise of the chase is very healthy for one who 
like you wears himself away over his books. Are you 
ill? 

Laz. No, senor, I am not ill. And I spent these 
three days in the country very pleasantly. But this 
morning broke dull and rainy, and I said — " Home ! " 

Juan. And you arrived when I was getting up. 
I told you the great news ; immediately you showed 
great delight ; but then you fell into sublime pre- 
occupations. Poor Carmen ! {approaching him with 
an air of secrecy). You don't love her as she loves 
you. 

Laz. With all my soul ! More than you can 
imagine ! I am as I am : reserved, untamed, un- 
polished — but I know how to love ! 

Juan. Better and better ! The poor little thing — 
come, now — the poor little thing. 

Laz. And why did not Don Timoteo answer on 



The Son of Don Juan. 71 

the spot that he accepted? When you asked him for 
his daughter for me, why did he hesitate ? 

Juan. What do you mean by hesitation? I do him 
the honor of requesting the hand of Carmen for my 
Lazarus — and he would hesitate ! I should strangle 
the scarecrow. Marry a man like you ! What more 
could any daughter or any father desire ? 

Laz. Then why did he put off the answer till 
to-day ? 

Juan. The prescriptions of etiquette : social con- 
ventionalities : he was always a great stickler for 
etiquette. Because he must consult with Carmen. 
Imagine him consulting with Carmen ! When the 
poor little thing is like a soul in purgatory, and you 
are her heaven. — Ha 1 ha ! 

Laz. You are right. 

Juan. No : you shall have your sweet little wife, 
your home ; you shall work hard, you shall gain great 
glory, you shall keep a sound judgment — and let the 
whole world say : Don Lazarus Mefia, son of Don 
Juan Mefia ! Oh ! 

Laz. Yes, senor : I shall do what I can — and I 
shall love my Carmen dearly. 

Juan. That 's right — that 's right. But something 's 
the matter with you. You seem as it were absent- 
minded. 

Laz. I am thinking — of my drama. 

Juan. Then I shall go ! decidedly I shall go ! 
With my insipid chatter I prevent you from thinking. 
Oh ! thought ! the — the — {looking at the book) " the 
cognitive forces " — the — the — {looking again) " the 
finality "—that 's it— " the finality."— Ah ! — Good-by. 

Laz. But don't go away on my account. 

Juan. We must show respect to the wise. {Laugh- 
ing.) I am going to read all alone the great book 



72 The Son of Don Juan. 

which you have lent me. {Taking a flower and 
putting it in the buttonhole of his dressing-gown.) 
Consider now, whether I shall hesitate between Kant 
and " Nana.*' {Pulls the bell.) 

Laz. As you please. 

Juan. Good-by, my son. To your drama — to 
your drama — and put nothing immoral in it. 
Enter Teresa. 

Ter. Senor. — 

Juan. Listen, Teresa : take all that to my room. 
Wait — {Pours hi?nself out a glass. Totiching one 
pocket^ Here is Gil Bias, {touching) here is " Nana " : 
Kant hauled along by the neck — and to my room. 
Work, my boy, work ! Do something great. Leave 
something to the world. I shall leave you — I think 
— {drinking the glass of wine). Well, this finality — 
has an end. To work — to work ? — Good-by. Lord, 
what a Lazarus this is! To my room with all that, 
little Teresa. 

[Exit carrying in one pocket Gil Bias, in the other 
" Nana," in his buttonhole the flower, and 
gripped very hard the vohime of Kant.) 

Laz. Teresa, they have brought no letter for me? 

Ter. {preparing to remove the wine and the biscttits). 
No, senor. 

Laz. Patience : you did not tell my mother I had 
written to that Senor de Bermudez. 

Ter. No, senor. 

Laz. Has my mother got up? 

Ter. Got up, indeed ! Before you returned this 
morning from hunting, Dona Dolores had already gone 
to call for the Senorita Carmen that they might go to 
Mass together. 

Laz. Good. 



The Son of Don Juan. 73 

Ter. And I don't know how she rose so early, nor 
how she found courage to go out. 

Laz. Why? 

Ter. Because last night she was very ill: very ill 
indeed. 

Laz. (starting up). My mother ! 

Ter. Yes, senor. I say that it must have been the 
nerves. How she cried : how she twisted her arms ! 
Indeed I wanted to send an express messenger for 
you to come back at once. 

Laz. Ah ! my God, my poor mother ! and why was 
I not informed? I would have mounted on horse- 
back; and in one hour — here. 

Ter. Because the senora would not have it so. 
" Silence, not a word to anybody," so she said, and 
an order from her is an order. 

Laz. But how is it possible? My father said 
nothing to me ! 

Ter. He was not informed : he went to the theatre, 
afterwards to the Casino with Don Timoteo and Don 
Nemesio; he returned late, and as the senora had 
given orders — " to nobody " — nothing was said to him 
and he knew nothing. 

Laz. But how was it ? Why was it ? She who is 
never ill ! 

Ter. I don't know. The senora dined early and 
alone. Afterwards she went out. She came back at 
ten o'clock : she could scarcely enter her room, and 
immediately fell to the ground — just like a tower that 
falls. 

Laz. My God ! my God ! And you never informed 
me ! 

Ter. Well, I am informing you now. And in spite 
of what she said, " not a word." But to you — I for 
you. Oh ! when it concerns you, senorito. (Lazarus 



74 The Son of Don Juan. 

pays no attention to her.} But don't be distressed : 
this morning already she was so strong and so well : 
yes, really, very pale and with such dark circles round 
the eyes ! but so strong. We women are thus : now 
we are dying and afterwards we revive : we go back 
to death and again we return to life. 

Laz. You mean that now she is well? But entirely 
well? 

Ter. Don't I tell you she is as w r ell as could be ? 
Let your mind rest, senorito. 

Lazarus very much agitated has been walking 
about. 

Laz. Good, good, if it has already passed off — in 
short, when my mother returns, tell me. 

Ter. You have no other orders ? 

Laz. No. {A bell rings several times.} My father 
is calling : go, go quickly. The vibrating of the bell 
makes me nervous. 

Ter. I must take away this. {Takes up the trays.) 

Laz. (the bell continues ringing). Take it away 
quickly for pity's sake. 

Ter. • On the instant; what a hurry that good 
gentleman is in ! 

Laz. And if they bring the answer from Sefior de 
Bermudez. 

Ter. Immediately afterwards. {The bell con- 
tinues.) I am coming, I am coming. (She says this 
without calling aloud, as if to herself.) 

[Exit Teresa. 

Laz. {alone). What she has told me about my 
poor mother has unstrung all my nerves. I am not 
well. Bah! I am not ill. How Doctor Bermudez 
will laugh at me when I consult him. The fact is 
that I am very apprehensive ; but I feel strong: Javier 



The Son of Don Juan. 75 

says to me every moment : " My boy, don't strut 
about on your heels so much." Steady; so, steady. 
(He walks about, treads with his heels and laughs?) 
I know now what 's the matter. I am very happy and 
I have a horrible dread of losing so much happiness. 
Very happy. {Counting on his fingers?) My father 
and mother, so good; Carmen, who adores me; I, 
who am raving about her ; glory, which calls me ; 
I who answer, " Forward, Lazarus " ; my eyes, which 
are my own and are never satiated with drinking in 
light and colors; my thought, which is mine, and 
which does not tire of originating wonders; my life, 
which is mine, and which desires to live more, to live 
more — yes, more ! {A pause?) They say that life is 
dull, that it is mournful. Buffoons ! Has anything 
better been discovered? Is it better to be stone 
which has no nerves to quiver with delight? Is it 
better to be water which always runs in headlong 
stupidity without knowing where it goes? Is it better 
to be air to blow without motive and to rill itself with 
the foulest earth and dust? No, it is better to be 
Lazarus. {Resumes the counting on his fingers?) For 
Lazarus has very good parents ; he has Carmen ; he 
has glory ; he has life ; and he has, above all, thought, 
reason! Ha! I have all this: I have it: what 
remains to be done if I have it ! (Sits down in a some- 
what cowering manner?) It is evident — and because 
all this is so good, and because I have it, I am afraid 
to lose it. I am as terrified as a little child ; at times 
it seems to me that I am a little child, and I am seized 
with impulses to run to my mother and wrap myself 
round in her skirt. A man who almost understands 
Kant and Hegel ; who writes dramas which are very 
well received, yes, senor, very well received; who 
meditates transcendental works. A man, in every 



76 The Sox of Don Juan. 

sense a man. who has fought duels in Madrid, and 

has had a little love affair or so — {laughing) — and 
very pleasant too, the practical reason, not of Kant 
but of Zola, that turns the Pure Reason of Kant into 
ridicule and makes even the good matron laugh. 
Well then, this formidable Lazarus at times is a child, 
and he would like his mother to embrace him and to 
buy him toys ! To be a child, yes, all the same 
it is good to be a child. Nay. I should like it. 
{Laughing.} But what absurdities ! Lord, what 
absurdities ! {Remains cowering in his chair, thinking 
and laughing very low.) 

Enter Teresa. 

Ter. Senorito, a gentleman has given me this card. 

Laz. (as if awaking). A gentleman ? Let me see 
— Doctor Bermudez ! But why has he put himself to 
inconvenience ? I would have gone to him. Let him 
come in. Let him come in. Quick, woman, let him 
come in. (Exit Teresa.) With this man I must 
have much prudence, much composure, much calm. 
If he had heard the nonsense that I was talking ! 
What a terror ! 

Teresa, {re-entering and annotincing). Senor de 
Bermudez. [Exit Teresa. 

Enter Bermudez. 

Berm. Senor Don Lazarus Mefia? 

Laz. Your servant — very much your servant — one 
who is grieved to the heart for having troubled a 
person such as you. A man of eminence — a man of 
knowledge. {With ?nuch courtesy, but endeavoring to 
restrain hi?nself.) 

Berm. Not so — not so — I received your letter. 

Laz. Indeed, it was not meant that you should give 
yourself any trouble. I begged you to be good 



The Son of Don Juan. 77 

enough to appoint a time for me and I should have 
gone to your house. But take a seat. I cannot allow 
you to remain standing an instant longer. Sit down ! 
{Making hi7n sit down.) Here — no — here — you will 
be better here. 

Berm. Many thanks. You are very amiable ! 
{Takes a seat.) 

Laz. I don't know whether I am entitled to sit 
down in the presence of a man like yourself ; a 
national glory ! {Commands hi7iiself so that his accent 
is natural : perhaps however he errs a little by excess 
of courtesy?) 

Berm. For goodness' sake ! 

Laz. A man of European fame ! 

Berm. You overwhelm me. I don't deserve it. 
{Aside.) He is very sympathetic, this young man. 
They were right in Madrid to say that he has plenty 
of ability. 

Laz. You don't deserve it ? Ah ! in discussing the 
merits of a celebrity like Doctor Bermudez, modesty 
will always have a voice, but it has no vote. 

Berm. Senor de Mefia. {Aside.) How well he 
speaks ! 

Laz. Don't treat me ceremoniously. I am not 
deserving of so much solemnity. " Senor de Mefia '*' ! 
{Laughing.) Call me Lazarus. I really don't 
deserve anything better; treat me as a master 
might a pupil. I dare not say as a kind friend 
would treat a respectful friend. 

Berm. As you please. It will be an honor for me ! 
{Aside.) Very sympathetic, very sympathetic ! 

Laz. Well. I repeat that I am sorry at heart for 
having given you this trouble. 

Berm. Not at all. I already told your mother last 
night that if at any other time she required me, or if 



78 The Son of Don Juan. 

she wished by any further suggestions to make me 
amplify my opinion, I was unconditionally at her 
orders. A card saying to me " Come," and I should 
come instantly. And so it is that on receiving the 
letter this morning — as you may imagine — I said, " I 
must place myself at the feet of that lady, and I must 
personally become acquainted with her son, a national 
glory of the future, one who is destined to have a 
European renown." 

Laz. Senor de Bermudez ! {Repudiating the 
honor with a gesture. Aside.) My mother — last 
night — what does he say? (Commanding himself, 
then aloud.) So my mother went last night — to see 
you — because 

Berm. Yes, senor, she has already explained every- 
thing to me. That you were out hunting, and that 
you did not mean to return this week ; that she had 
been informed that I was going back to Madrid this 
day, and that she had been anxious to consult me 
without the loss of a moment concerning the illness of 
that poor young man — a cousin or a nephew, or a 
relative — I think he is a nephew of your mother, 
whose name she said was — Don Luis — Don 
Luis 

Laz. Quite so — a nephew. You have it. (Smiling. 
Then aside.) What's this? What relative is that? 
Why, it is not true. God of Heaven ! (Aloud.) A 
nephew — that 's it. To whom God does not give sons, 
the devil. (Laughing.) Yes, but she also has me — 
her Lazarus, her son ! 

Berm. And she must be proud. 

Laz. Senor de Bermudez, have compassion on a 
beginner. But I wish you to explain to me what you 
had the kindness to explain to my mother : because 
ladies — don't understand much about medical science 



The Son of Don Juan. 79 

— and though I understand just as little of it, nev- 
ertheless 

Berm. Quite so ; it is a speciality. 

Laz. A speciality, that 's it; it is a speciality. And 
moreover, I know that young man more intimately — 
poor Luis ! And I can supply you with fresh 
particulars. 

Berm. Oh ! those of your mother were very precise. 
She has a keenly observing mind. 

Laz. Very much so ; don't you describe it well ! A 
keenly observing mind. {Aside.) My God ! — my 
mother — and on her return home — her weeping — 
what does this man say ? 

Berm. Altogether it would be better that I should 
see the poor young man; but should that not be 
possible 

Laz. I should think it is possible, and that would 
be th£ best. You shall see him. I myself will take 
him to you — to your house. Yes, sefior, to your 
house; yes, sefior. 

Berm. That will do perfectly. That was what 
I said to your mother, but she told me in reply that so 
long as things don't come to an extremity, families 
require to consider. I understand and I impute no 
blame. 

Laz. Nothing of the kind. Now, at this very 
moment you shall come with me to see that — that 
poor young man. A man like you! And nothing 
more was needed. 

Berm. (rising). Then I await your orders. 

Laz. Allow me, my friend, my dear friend : first of 
all I should like — I beg of you to tell me what my 
mother explained to you, and what was your opinion ; 
because, although she related everything to me this 
morning, I should be glad to hear it from your lips. 



So The Son of Don Juan. 

One learns everything by listening to such a man as 
Doctor Bermudez. {In a persuasive tone.) I am so- 
anxious that you should speak, and that I should hear 
you. Indeed, it has been the dream of my existence. 
Speak, speak. 

Berm. Dear Lazarus. {Aside.) I have fascinated 
him, decidedly. {Alotid.) Your mother explained to 
me with great lucidity all the antecedents of the 
patient: his sufferings when a child, his character, 
his studies, his excitable imagination, the first symp- 
toms of the illness, a fainting attack, another more 
violent. 

Laz. {somewhat dryly). All that I know already. 
Go on. {With extreme cordiality .) Go on, my dear 
Bermudez. 

Berm. The doctor is rather like a confessor, and 
your mother did not object to letting me know of the 
youthful days of the father — of the father of the young 
man. 

Laz. Ah! his youthful days — yes — his youthful 
days — yes — yes — and what else? 

Berm. His vicious conduct; his unbridled lib- 
ertinism 

Laz. {excitedly). Libertinism! {Controlling him- 
self.) Yes. (With a forced latigh.) Follies of youth. 
A lady always exaggerates these things. I have not 
been a saint myself; neither have you. Doctor, 
doctor, you with all your science and all your 
gravity. God knows. God knows ! Oh ! these 
doctors ! {Giving him a slap on the back.) And 
what more? 

Berm. {laughing). We are mortals and sinners, 
friend Lazarus. 

Laz. And we take for fine gold little lenses of talc. 
Come, come to the talc. 



The Son of Don Juan. 8i 

Berm. Thus stands the case — that that good 
gentleman, the father of the patient, reached the age 
of gravity, and he was not a steady man, and he did 
not correct his faults. His wife seems to have suffered 
very much. Is all this exact which your mother told 
me ? Because if it is exact it must be taken into 
account That 's the reason I ask. 

Laz. {aside). My head ! Oh my head ! (Succeeds 
in commanding himself, and speaks naturally. 
Aloud.) See, doctor, those are details of which 
I know nothing. But if my mother told you so, it 
will be true. My mother is a superior spirit, a most 
pure soul, a mother beyond comparison. But let us 
not speak of the mother, only of the son, that's to say 
of the son of the other mother. Therefore let 's see, 
let's see. What more did she tell you ? 

Berm. That to prevent the son from becoming 
fully acquainted with the disorders of the father — 
because the boy, naturally, was growing up, the 
mother had to send him to a college in France. 

Laz. {aside). It is I. It is I ! Ah ! ah ! Calm ! 
let me be calm ! 

Berm. What do you say ? 

Laz. Nothing. I laugh at those family tragedies — 
the father a madcap, and the son. And as you fill me 
with such respect — and as the subject is so sad — 
I should not have presumed to laugh. Ah ! Senor de 
Bermudez, what a world this is! — what a world 
this is ! Come, come. (Growing calm.) Yes, senor, 
the history, so far as I know, is entirely correct. 
Then they sent him to study in Madrid — that un- 
fortunate, unfortunate youth : but, look you, not so 
unfortunate — for he went through his course with 
distinction. 

Berm. Quite so, and the father always the same. 
6 



82 The Sox of Don Juan. 

Laz. {somewhat harshly}. Let us not speak of the 
father. And why ? Because the son is now launched 
on the world ; then let us leave out of the question the 
other. (Recollecting himself?) Ah ! pardon me. I 
love my father so much, I respect him so much, that 
those words which you uttered have caused me much 
pain, much pain. A weakness I confess ; a man of 
science does not know r those weaknesses ; but we poets 
are thus. You — you raise yourselves above the 
level of human miseries. The eagle wings alike — eh ? 
above the peak of granite with its robe of frost — eh ? 
and over the infected puddle — or the mire — the mire 
— eh? But we are not all as Doctor Bermudez ? 
(Grasping his hand.) 

Berm. I respect your delicacy : but science is 
implacable. A father who has consumed his life in 
vice — 

Lazarus retreats i?i his chair. 

Who has wallowed with all the energies of his nature 
in the mire of riot, who has heated his blood in the 
embers of all impure fires — runs the danger of trans- 
mitting to his son nothing but the germs of death or 
the germs of madness ! 

Lazarus recoils more and ?nore. 
And I tell you, as I told your mother last night, with- 
out prejudice to the rectification of my opinion when 
I have examined the patient, that if the description 
which you have given me is exact — and I conclude 
that it is 

Laz. It is. What then ? 

Berm. Ah ! the springs of life cannot be corrupted 
with impunity. The Son of that father will very soon 
sink into madness or into idiocy. A madman or an 
idiot : such is his fate ! 



The Son of Don Juan. 83 

(He says this without looking rou7id, with solemnity, 
like one who pro7ionnces a sentence : gazing for- 
ward and motioning with his ari7i towards 
Lazarus. The latter cowers in his chair and 
looks at Bermudez with horror.} 
Laz. Ah! No! What? My father! I? A lie ! 
It is a lie ! (Hides his face in his hands.) 

Berm. What 's this ? Lazarus ! Senor de Mefia ! 
Are you ill? What do you say? (Rising and 
approaching Laz arus.) I don't understand ! Can it 
be ? What ? 

Laz. That I am the madman ? Silence ! That I 
am the idiot ? Silence ! That I am such — I ? Look 
at me well : study me well : strengthen your judg- 
ment : meditate, examine, give sentence ! 

Bermudez standing, Lazarus seated and clutching 
the doctor by the arm. 

Berm. But this is not fair, Senor de Mefia ! This 
is not just ! By God — by my sacred God ! 

Laz. Fairness, justice, in a man such as I ? Ber- 
mudez, Bermudez, I did wrong, I confess — (with a 
mixture of courtesy, sadness, and so7ne sarcas77i) — An 
idiot who presents his most humble excuses to a wise 
man! Be generous, pardon me. 

Berm. You have not understood me. I am sorry 
for you, -Lazarus, because I have given you — a shock 
— a bad time of it, without cause — believe me, 
without any cause. God help me, these dramatic 
authors — no, one is not safe with them ! ( Wishing to 
turn the matter off with a laugh.) 

Laz. Let us be calm, let us be calm. I want the 
truth ; there still remains to me some glimmer of reason, 
and I can understand what you say to me. Ha ! the 
truth — Bermudez, the truth ! It is the last truth that 



84 The Son of Don Juan. 

I can understand, and I wish to enjoy it. (Rising.) 
Out with it ! I still understand — yes — still ! 

Berm. Friend Lazarus ! By all the saints of the 
heavenly court ! 

Laz. No, I still keep my senses ; I shall explain to 
you all that has passed. My mother, pretending to 
inquire about another, inquired about me ; I, pre- 
tending to be interested on another's account, was 
interested on my own, and a poor mother and a lost 
wretch have between them cajoled a wise man. Ah ! 
cajoled — no : pardon. We wished to know the truth 
— nothing more ; but as the truth is treacherous, it is 
necessary at times to drag it forth by treason. I 
humbly beg that you will pardon us — my mother — 
and myself. 

Berm. I tell you that I cannot recover from my 
surprise ; that I am cut to the heart for having spoken 
with such levity. I have already told you that my 
opinion was haphazard — quite haphazard — without 
examination of the patient. {Seeking where to go) 

Laz. Well, here is the patient. Don't I tell you 
that I am the man ? Oh, have no fear : I am a man 
capable of looking face to face upon death, and of 
answering the grimace of madness with another 
grimace even more grotesque. While a heart re- 
mains to me, the head will obey. 

Berm. For God's sake, calm yourself. All this is 
not serious. 

Laz. I am perfectly calm ; I am still master of 
myself. Sit down. (Makes him take a seat?) Let us 
talk quietly. Tell me all, but in a low voice, that my 
mother may not know ; that she may not know. And 
of my father, not a word ! Oh, my father — no, enough 
— nothing ! I have been a madman in Madrid, so that 
the madness is mine. It is all mine ! Oh! you deny 



The Son of Don Juan. 85 

that it is all mine? That is not right, Sefior de Ber- 
mudez. Take to yourself the accusation that it is not 
right. You deny me my own reason, and you even 
wish to deprive me of my own madness, saying — 
saying — that my father— silence ! Well, my reason 
may not belong to me : patience ! But my madness 
belongs to me ; I swear to you that it belongs to me, 
and I shall defend it — I shall defend it, Bermudez ! 
{Advances upon the physician. Then restrains him- 
self.) And now, let us talk soberly of myself — of my 
suffering. 

Berm. Sefior de Mefla, dear Lazarus — as for what 
I told you a while since, it was purely hypothetical; 
now that I know you, I modify my opinion in every 
point. 

Laz. {with a mocking smile). Indeed? By God, 
Sefior de Bermudez, that I am a madman we '11 let 
pass ; but I am not yet an idiot. 

Berm. By God, Sefior de Mefia, I am sure that I 
shall go out of this house either an idiot or a mad- 
man ! 

Laz. When do you calculate that I shall suffer the 
decisive attack — the last: that of the eternal night ; 
that which surrounds us with blackness for ever? 
How easily it is known that I have been a poet, eh ? 
Eternal night, eternal blackness! Is it not true? 
However, say — when ? What term do you allow me ? 
A year? three months? or is it immediately? Can- 
didly. You see, now, that I still hear, and under 
stand, and even speak poetically. Eternal blackness- 
eternal night ! However, let me know — let me know. 
A year, eh ? 

Berm. It is readily perceived that you are a poet. 
You plunge into the regions of fantasy. You see, 
your nervous system is shaken, somewhat shaken. I 



86 The Son of Don Juan. 

don't deny it ; but I make myself responsible for your 
cure ; do you want more ? 

Laz. We are coming to the point. As for my cure, 
I am ready to believe that. But the decisive attack 

— when? I have such a feeling these few days past, 
that I think it will be very soon. 

Berm. Ravings, ravings ! these are ravings. 

Laz. Precisely. Ah! you have said it — ravings. 
Come, an effort. Will it be to-morrow, will it be 
to-day? 

Berm. Neither to-day, nor to-morrow, nor within 
twenty years, if you keep your senses. 

Laz. If I keep my senses ! You are ingenious. 
" I shall not lose my senses if I keep my senses." 
Naturally. 

Berm. A good sign : now we are joking. 

Laz. Yes, I am very quiet. At first I felt a wave 
of blood roll through my brain ; then a wave of ice, 
which spread through all my being. And now — well 

— quiet — tired, a little tired, nothing more. 

Berm. Good ; then take a rest, put your mind at 
ease ; and before my setting out for Madrid I shall 
return. I have to convince you 

Laz. I am convinced ! Oh, my God ! I don't 
wish to keep you any longer, I have sufficiently 
abused your kindness. 

Berm. (making a movement to withdraw). Then if 
you will permit me 

Laz. Yes, senor, assuredly (accompanying him). 
And don't have any ill-will towards me. 

Berm. Good God — no ; however, my friend 

Laz. {detaining him). One moment! (In his ear.) 
When? 

Berm. Some other time. 

Laz. No ; the one thing that I wish you to tell me, 



The Son of Don Juan. 87 

is this : " Lazarus, there is no hope ; the attack will 
be next month, or next week, or to-morrow, or to-night, 
or this very hour," in short, when must it be ? This 
is the only thing you have to tell me : I ask no 
more. 

Berm. But how can you have me knowingly utter 
nonsense ? 

Laz. {energetically). Because you have the inevi- 
table power of telling me the truth ; however sharp, 
however bitter, however mournful, it may be, you 
must tell it to me. It is a question of honor, of life 
or death. Now you shall understand me. (fn a low 
voice in the doctors ear.) I love, I adore Carmen ; 
our wedding has been arranged: it will take place in 
a short time — within fifteen days. And now, answer 
me : Can I, in conscience, without being guilty of 
infamy, can I bind the existence of Carmen to my 
existence — to the existence of an idiot? 

Berm. What a question ! 

Laz. If you are a man of honor . What, go 

away without answering me? Well, the way is free 
to you (withdrawing from him). Oh ! I '11 not detain 
you. 

Berm. By God, Lazarus 

Laz. But reflect, that through the cowardice of a 
moment, through not having spoken to me as one 
man speaks to another man — for I still am a man — 
you are about to do great mischief. Because if you 
don't say to me, " Renounce," I shall not renounce 
Carmen; I shall embrace her and drag her down 
with me to the abyss. 

Berm. You see that I can do no more. 

Laz. You see that love is life — the oil of life which 
propagates itself. And what will be our posterity? 
Come, say it, boldly. A swarm of neurotics, of idiots, 



SS The Son of Don Juan. 

of lunatics, perhaps of criminals. A common sewer 
hurrying on to death the wrecks of humanity. In 
candor, in honesty, say it. 

Berm. Oh ! what a head ! Indeed, if you continue 
thus, I assure you that you will go mad. 

Laz. By the memory of your mother, by the honor 
of your family, by the happiness of your children, by 
the sacred duty of your profession, by your conscience 
as an upright man, by your God, by piety, by com- 
passion . If you had a daughter would you allow 

her to marry me ? 

Berm. To-day? No! {Wishes to continue.} 

Laz. Enough ! nor to-morrow either. Enough — 
never — thank you. My sentence ! Carmen, Carmen ! 
{Falls on the sofa.) 

Berm. Lazarus — for God's sake — you did not 
allow me to finish. Lazarus! What a creature! Lis- 
ten to me. I must call. {Pulls the bell.) He is losing 
his wits — Lazarus ! (The bell.) Eh ! Here ! {Going 
to the door.) 

Enter Dolores and Don Juan. 

Berm. Sefiora! 

Dol. {running to him). Bermudez! 

Juan {to Bermudez). My Lazarus ! 

Dol. {to Bermudez). My boy ! 

Juan. But what is this ? Lord, what is this? 

Laz. {rising). Nothing. We called — they did not 
appear. We continued to call — and you have come. 
And I called because I wished to introduce you to my 
kind friend, Doctor Bermudez. My mother {intro- 
ducing her) ; you already know each other. Is it not 
true that you know each ? 

Dol. My son ! , , 



The Son of Don Juan. 89 

She and Lazarus embrace. 

Laz. (to Bermudez). Don't be surprised. As I 
was hunting a whole week — and as we did not see 
each other on my return — we were embracing. 

Berm. It's natural. 

Laz. My father (introducing him). I have already 
seen my father this morning, that 's why I don't 
embrace him. (Juan looks at him imploringly.) 
However, that you may not imagine I love him less 
than my mother, I shall embrace him likewise. 
Father ! 

Juan. Lazarus ! (Embracirig him.) Closer to me ! 
closer! so! (To Dolores, aside.) You see, 
Dolores, you see ? He has such strength ; he has 
nearly squeezed the breath out of me. It 's all folly 
what you have been telling me. 

Dol. Yes — quite true — folly. 

Juan (to Bermudez). What's this boy suffering 
from ? 

Berm. Nothing : in substance, nothing. 

Juan (to Dol.). Are you listening ? What a head 
you have ! 

Laz. Make your minds easy. Delicate — slightly 
delicate. Don't be cast down, mother. 

Dol. (caressing him). Lazarus, my son, my Lazarus ! 

Juan (approaching Lazarus with envy). And 
must I be cast down or not ? Oh, it matters little 
whether or not I be cast down. 

Laz. Neither must you be downhearted, father. 
There is no cause. I am perfectly well ; let Ber- 
mudez tell you. And I am going to work for a while 
(with anguish), because I can do no more (restraining 
himself) — I can do no more with this idleness, eh ? 
And with the regimen that you have prescribed for me 



90 The Son of Don Juan. 

— and by following your advice — within a short time 

— the resurrection of Lazarus! Good-by, Bermudez; 
my own mother, father and senor — illustrious doctor — 
note that phrase — that phrase — the resurrection of 
Lazarus. Ah! for this Lazarus there is no resurrec- 
tion. [Exit. 

Juan (to Bermudez). Speak, by Christ crucified ! 
I know that it is nothing — but I wish you to speak. 
Come, my Lazarus — what? Why does this woman 
say such things ? Jesus, Jesus, what a woman ! You 
have always been the same. (To Bermudez.) Don't 
speak lightly — these are very important matters. 
However, come ! let me know, let me know ! 

Berm. Senor Don Juan, you understand — 

Dol. Have you changed your opinion ? 

Berm. Substantially it remains unchanged. 

Dol. My God ! my God! (Throws herself sobbing 
071 a chair.) 

Berm. But we must have a little calmness ; senor, 
for God's sake. 

Juan. Calm? I should think so; since what you 
two say is impossible : then nothing else was required. 
As if this could do no more than come down upon a 
genius like Lazarus — and all in a moment. If it were 
I — good, because I — Senor de Bermudez — I waste 
breath any day; but Lazarus, Lazarus, consider well 
what you see, for these things are very important. 
And they must be thought over deliberately. Very 
important — very important indeed. 

Berm. You are right, Don Juan. And now, you '11 
both excuse me, I am deeply affected — and I could 
not co-ordinate two ideas. 

Juan (aside, to his wife). Are you listening? He 
could not co-ordinate two ideas. I say, I say, why 
did I trust to him! 



The Son of Don Juan. 91 

Berm. Later on — to-morrow — some other day — I 
shall have the .pleasure of paying my compliments to 
you and of seeing Lazarus. Now, permit me to retire. 

Dol. (rising and hurrying towards him). But you 
are not yet going back to Madrid ? No, for God's 
sake ! 

Berm. No, sefiora. I shall remain here fifteen or 
twenty days longer. 

Dol. Then, come again ; come again, I implore 
you! 

Juan. Yes ; come again. 

Berm.. Yes, sefior, I shall come again. 

Dol. To-morrow ? 

Juan. If you gave a little look in to-night — eh ? 
You could take coffee with us. I have some 
sherry 

Berm. To-night I cannot. I shall come to-morrow. 

Dol. To-morrow, then, Bermudez. (Accompany- 
ing him.) Save my son ! 

Juan. See you to-morrow, Sefior de Bermudez. And 
have a care what you do with my Lazarus ! 

Berm. Till to-morrow, then, sefiora. (Pressing 
her hand.) And my dear senor. 
Dolores falls on a chair : Juan walks about with 
difficulty, but with an air of great vigor. 

Juan. This man does not know what he 's talking 
about. You have now heard him ; he can't co-ordi- 
nate two ideas. How simple we are ! What, and do 
people lose their talents and lose their head as one 
might lose a hat? Here, I got rid of my hat, and 
thus got rid of my head ? Bah, bah ! Idiots are 
what they are from infancy. Nor do I say idiots only 
— fools have been fools all through life; there is 
nobody more consistent than a fool. But as to a man 
of genius ! Oh ! Genius. Tut, absurdities of doctors ! 



92 The Son of Don Juan. 

He to pronounce judgment on my Lazarus ! He who 
can't co-ordinate two ideas — on Lazarus, who is as 
familiar with the " finality without end " as he is with 
the Our Father I Come, answer. Am I right? 

Dol. Alas! 

Juan. But don't you think it is false — all that that 
buffoon has told us ? 

Dol. (with desperation). And if it were true ? If it 
were true? What then? Then, why was I born? 
{Advancing upon Don Juan, who retreats?) My 
illusions lost through you ! My youth destroyed 
through you! My dignity sneered at through you! 
After twenty years of sacrifices in order to be deserv- 
ing of my Lazarus — good for him! loyal for him! 
honored for him ! And to-day ? No. You have 
always been a wretch : but this time you are right. 
Impossible ! Impossible ! God could not let it be 
so. 

Juan. Well, I have been a wretch — there's no 
getting over it. But do not call to mind all that — 
and above all, don't speak of it. Say that you forgive 
me — forgive me, Dolores. 

Dol. What does it matter to you — my forgive- 
ness ? 

Juan. It matters to us both. If you don't pardon 
me, and at the same time God purposes to chastise 
me, and chastises me in my Lazarus — " He might 
have been a genius, here you have in him an idiot." 
These things are very serious. Come, come, don't say 
that. 

Dol. What things you do say ? You, too, talk at 
random. No matter — under such circumstances. I 
pardon you with all my heart. 

Juan. Thank you, Dolores. Thus we are more 
secure. 



The Son of Don Juan. 93 

Dol. {clinging to him). But help me to save 
Lazarus. 

Juan. With my whole soul. Though I had to give 
up for him all that life remains to me. 

Dol. Give your life! Ha! what life have you? 
All the life that God first granted you, you should give 
him. 

Juan. Dolores ! 

Dol. Ah ! it 's true. I had pardoned you. I shall 
not recall my word. But what are we to do ? 

Juan. Take him to Madrid, that the best known 
physicians may see him. 

Dol. Well thought of ! 

Juan. And then to Paris. W r e shall consult all the 
eminent men. 

Dol. Quite so. Then to Germany. 

Juan. And to England. The English know a 
great deal. Bah ! there is plenty of science dispersed 
throughout the world. 

Dol. Then we shall collect it all for Lazarus. 

Juan. Without fail ! All for him ! Whatever 
remains of my fortune for him. I have squandered 
much, but I am still rich. 

Dol. I have never called you to a reckoning. You 
have squandered your own. 

Juan. No, sefiora : no, senora. It was not mine. 
I see it now. It belonged to Lazarus. But Lord ! I 
did not know I was going to have Lazarus. Dolores, 
we must save him. 

Dol. We hang on to his reason like two creatures 
in despair, that it may not fly away. Is it not true ? 
(Clinging to him,) 

Juan. Like two of the desperate, and like two 
parents. Is it not so? (Pressing her to him.) And 
we shall save him, eh ? Don't say no ; don't say no ! 



94 The Son of Don Juan. 

{Falls weeping on a sofa!) I have been bad, but with- 
out bad intention. I did not know this. Would that 
I had been told ! Lazarus, my Lazarus ! 

Dol. Don't be distressed. Don't you see that you 
will not have energy to struggle ? 

Juan. I '11 not have energy ? Ah ! you '11 see. Ho ! 
ho ! I have no energy ! 

Dol. I love to see you thus. And believe me that 
Bermudez exaggerates. 

Juan. He is a fanatic — a buffoon — a madman that 
can't co-ordinate two ideas. Ah, blockhead. (Shaking 
his fist.) I don't know how I keep my head. My 
breast is burning. My throat is dry. (Pulls the bell.) 
Teresa ! eh ! Teresa ! 

Dol. {calling). Teresa! {Turning to Juan.) 
What 's the matter ? 

Juan. Nothing — nothing. 

Teresa entering. 

Ter. Senor? 

Juan. Bring me a glass of sherry. No, a glass of 
water — water only. 

Ter. Yes, senor. [Exit. 

Juan {walking about). From this day I have to 
mortify myself — on bread and water, like an anchorite 
— all for Lazarus. Come, is not this to be put to my 
credit ? 

Dol. Yes; but much prudence. Let nobody know 
anything. 

Juan. Nothing. Our journeys will be journeys of 
pleasure ; artistic voyages, that Lazarus may see the 
world and gain instruction. All those are false terrors ! 

Dol. Not a word to anybody. 

Juan. Not to Carmen — say nothing to Carmen. 

Dol. Poor Carmen, my poor angel ! But you are 
right. The first is Lazarus. > 



The Son of Don Juan. 95 

Juan. The first — that's clear. But that girl does 
not come, and I am choking. 

Enter Teresa and Don Timoteo. 

Ter. (announcing, and with the glass of water). 
Here is Don Timoteo. 

Juan. Let him come in. 

Ter. He is already in. 

Juan (to Dolores). Silence, and let us affect in- 
difference. 

Dol. (aside). Indifference and gayety. {Wiping 
her eyes. Don Juan drinks a glass of water.) 

Juan (to Dolores). Will you take some? Drink, 
dear. Be calm ! [Exit Teresa. 

Dol. Thank you ; I am calm now. 

Tim. Dona Dolores ! 

Dol. Friend Don Timoteo ! 

Juan. My dear Timoteo! (Wishing to embrace 
him.) 

Tim. Don't embrace me. Don't you see that I 
have come according to etiquette? All in black! 

Dol. In black! Why? 

Juan. Why? 

Tim. Don't be alarmed ; it is not mourning, but 
etiquette. I come in all solemnity. Now you shall 
see. Is n't Carmen here ? 

Dol. We went together to hear Mass. She came 
back with me — and she is now in my sitting-room 
with Don Nemesio and with Javier — so merry ! 

Tim. Then let everybody come here ! (Dolores 
rings the bell.) Everybody — except Lazarus; he 
must come afterwards. Ah ! solemnity ! solemnity ! 
(Laughing.) 

Ter. (entering). Senora . . . 

Dol. Let the Senorita Carmen have the goodness 
to come here. 



9 6 ■ The Sox of Don Juan. 

Tim. She and all — all. And till they come let no 
one speak to me. 

Dol. (aside to Don Juan). Don't you guess ? 

Juan {aside). Yes. [A pause. 

Tim. Solemn silence ! Silence, a precursor of 
something very grave. Ha ! ha ! 

Enter Carmen, Xemesio, a?id Javier. 

Car. (to her father). Did you call me? 
Tim. Silence, little one. Don't you see how grave 
we all are ? 

Car. But what 's the matter? 

Tim. (to his daughter). You stand beside Dolores. 

A movement among all : Carmen embraces 
Dolores. 

So : that 's well. 

Dol. My own daughter! 

Juan {aside). God assist me! 

Nem. Ah — ha! 

Jav. {to Xemesio). We are having a wedding. 

Tim. Silence! — Are we ready? All attention — and 
every solemnity — for I am going to begin. Ah ! you, 
Javier, who art the youngest man here, will go out in 
haste at the fitting moment to find Lazarus — " Lazarus ! 
Lazarus ! " You understand ? — So, so — all very quiet : 
hanging on my lips. (A pause) Senor Don Juan 
Mefia — {with comic solemnity). My dear sir — The 
devil, I seem as if I were going to write a letter ! 
— Juanito, you asked me for the hand of Carmen for 
Lazarus : I have consulted the girl, she is dying about 
the boy, and now I bring the girl to the boy. And I 
say before all — Let them be married — the devil — let 
them be married ! — (with great energy). — The pro- 
gramme in these cases — gehtlemen, the programme 



i 



The Son of Don Juan. 97 

— The blushing, the weeping, the smiling, the em- 
bracing ! 

(All spontaneously go through the inst?'uctions. 
Carmen and Dolores embrace, and Dolores 
weeps passionately. Nemesio and J avier laugh 
while pointing out the groups. Timoteo and 
Nemesio likewise embrace. Then Timoteo, as 
if recollecting himself, continues — ) 
Javier — go and look for Lazarus — Away, the situation 
is growing cool ! 

Jav. I am off — I am off ! Lazarus ! Lazarus ! 

[Exit. 
Car. Mother! 

Dol. My own daughter — my own daughter ! 
(Aside.) My God ! My God ! 

Tim. (to Don Juan). And you say nothing ? 
Juan. Why, nothing more was required. 
Tim. But he is not coming. 

Re-enter Javier and Lazarus ; the latter pale, 
disordered, and materially dragged along by the 
former. 

Laz. Where are you taking me ? Where ? 

Jav. Come, man, come ... to happiness ! 

Laz. What's this ? What do they want with me? 
Why do they call me ? 

Tim. Tableau I Carmen is yours ! I bring her 
to you ! You are to be married! (To Don Juan.) 
Eh ! you father of a cork-tree, say something to me ; 
I have gone through all my part ! 

Laz. Carmen — she — is it true ? My Carmen ! 

Dol. Your Carmen — she is yours. 

Juan. What the devil ! She is yours — be happy, 
and let the world founder! what do I care for the 
world ! 

7 



98 The Son of Don Juan. 

Laz. Mine, mine ! I may go to her ! fold her in 
my arms ! embrace her with all my soul ! drink her 
in with my eyes ! I may if I like ? 

Juan. Yes ! enough that you say — yes ! 

Laz. Oh, the infamy of it ! Oh, the treachery ! 
Carmen ! 

Car. {going up to him). Lazarus ! 

Laz. No, keep off! To whom are you coming? 
You shall not be mine! Never — never — never! 

Car. He casts me off ! He casts me off! I knew 
it ! M other ! mother ! {Falls into the ar?ns of 
Dolores.) 

Dol. Daughter of my heart ! 

Tim. My daughter ! What have you done ? What 
have you done ? 

Nem. But I don 't understand. 

Jav. I do. 

All hasten to help Carmen. 

Juan. Lazarus — my son ! 

Laz. {embracing his father). Father — father — you 
are my father, save me ! 

Juan. Yes, I shall save you — I gave you life ! 

Laz. You gave mc life! But that's not enough: 
give me more life — to live, to love, to be happy — give 
me life for my own Carmen — give me more life, or 
cursed be the life which you gave me ! 

{Falls insensible. 



END OF ACT II. 



ACT III. 

The scene represents a room in the country seat of Don 
Juan, on the banks of the Guadalquivir, in accor- 
dance with the description in the earlier part of the 
first act, although with some pieces of furniture of 
a more recent period and of 7nore sober taste. There 
still remain some divans, the carpet a7id various 
objects of art. Furthertnore, a little table and a 
low chair. In the background is a balcony or 
terrace, which is tinderstood to encircle the building. 
There is an ample view of the sky and of the 
horizon. If the balcony can be 77iade to slope 
somewhat towards the left, so much the better for 
the final scene. A door at the right, another to 
the left. A loutige to the right : to the left a sofa : 
a lighted lamp on some table to the side or at the 
back. It is night : the sky blue and starlight j as 
the act proceeds the lights of dawn gradually 
ascend. 

Don Timoteo, Javier a7id Paca are dis- 
covered; the last 71 a7jied walks about the back and 
oft the terrace as if to arrange somethi7ig : she is 
dressed in a black or very dark costume: 7nantle x 
of black crape and with fringes. 

1 The original "panolon" is a sort of cloak or shawl or 
blanket-like covering worn by Andalusian women. 



ioo The Son of Don Juan. 

Tim. And so Dolores wrote to you ? 

Jav. Yes, seflor. Lazarus wished to see me : my 
company was very much wanted to hasten on his 
convalescence : he was talking constantly about me. 
Finally, I said : " I must go there," I took the train, 
and two hours ago I planted myself at the door of this 
country seat, of this delightful country seat ; which 
ought to have admirable views, as far as I have been 
able to judge by the feeble light of the stars. 

Tim. But did n't you know it ? Were n't you 
acquainted with Don Juan's country seat? 

Jav. No, sefior. 

Tim. {waggishly). I was. I have known it for 
many years. I knew it — ay, when Juan and I were 
young men ! When I used to call him Juanito, and 
he called me Timoteito. Ah, ah ! {mysteriously). 
What a number of reminiscences these venerable 
precincts awaken ! All that you see is impregnated 
with love and madness, with alcohol and merriment. 
I could tell you : on this divan Juan one day fell 
down drunk : in that corner I fell one night in the 
same condition : and on that balcony we both fell one 
morning in a similar situation. Oh, most sacred 
memories! Oh, beloved images of the past! (To 
Paca.) What are you doing here ? 

Paca. I am putting everything in order, sefior. 

Tim. And now you will see such a panamora. That 
balcony looks toward the East, and you see the 
Guadalquivir — " Sevilla Guadalquivir, how you do 
torment my mind ! " The loveliest girls of the 
Sevillian land have breakfasted here, have danced 
here, have sung here, and have got drunk here. 

Jav. Ah, ha! you amused yourselves here in fine 
style. 

Paca sighs. 



The Son of Don Juan. ioi 

Tim. (turning round in ill humor). Have you not 
done ? Have you not done, Paca ? 

Paca. Well, I remained to see — if you gentlemen 
wanted anything, that 's all. 

Tim. Nothing, you may go to the kitchen. 

Paca. Very well, Don Timoteo : to the kitchen. 
Ah ! my God ! (She takes a low chair on to the 
terrace, sits down and fans herself.) 

Tim. I tell you that I can look at nothing which 
surrounds me without being moved. The girls from 
Sevilla, the girls from Malaga, the girls from Tarifa! 
But let us make a full stop. I am perverting you, 
young man: and at my age that's a villanous thing. 
But the fact is that there were certain girls from 
Sevilla and Malaga and Cadiz, and certain girls from 
Tarifa. 

Paca gives a very big sigh on the balcony. 

Who 's that sighing ? The devil of a woman, there 's 
nothing dismal in what we are saying — are you here 
still? 

Paca (from the balcony and without rising). To 
see if Don Timoteo wanted anything. 

Tim. I do want something, and this gentleman 
wants something. Bring us a few glasses. 1 

Paca rises and approaches. 

Jav. Many thanks : they gave me supper a short 
time ago : it is now very late — and I take nothing 
at such an hour as this. (To Paca.) Don't trouble 
yourself on my account. 

Paca. Then. 

1 "Glasses." The word in the original, throughout this act is 
caiias or canitas. These are conical-shaped glasses from which 
Spaniards drink Manzanilla — a lighter wine than sherry. 



io2 The Son of Don Juan. 

Tim. Then, trouble yourself on my account. Go, 
go, and bring that. 

Paca. Yes, senor, yes ; I am going, Don Timoteo. 

[Exits fa?ining herself, 

Jav. Good heavens! Manzanilla at this hour? 

Tim. Yes, yes, of course, I know that you are very 
steady. Lazarus writes dramas; you write history; 
but, my friend, Manzanilla is taken at any historical 
moment whatever. 

Jav. At any historical moment ? But one o'clock 
in the morning, although it be an exquisite morning 
of summer, is that an historical moment or a moment 
to go to sleep ? 

Tim. For the pleasure of tasting, eh? for the 
pleasure of tasting a sweet little drop of Manzanilla, 
the twenty-four hours of this day, and the twenty-four 
of the following, and those of the next, are marked 
down in all treatises, young man. Admit that there 
are no young men nowadays. 

Jav. How can it be helped? There are young 
men who are old, and there are young men who die 
quite young. 

Tim. It 's true. Since I came eight days ago to the 
country seat, my remembrances have become re- 
freshed, and I feel as if I were fifteen years old. 

Jav. And in a few more days you '11 feel as if you 
were fifteen months. 

Tim. Halloa ! Halloa ! that figure of speech is 
called irony. 

Jav. A respectful irony, Don Timoteo. But I 
did not think to meet you at the country seat of 
Don Juan. 

Tim. I had brought poor Carmen to Sevilla. She 
is very delicate. With those unfortunate events — 
with the illness of Lazarus — and what you know 



The Son of Don Juan. 103 

already. But when once at Sevilla Juanito was 
anxious that we should come and pass a few days 
here. And I. to give that pleasure to Carmen, and 
to contribute to the recovery of Lazarus — who, they 
declared, was going on very well — I consented and 
here we are. 

Jav. Restored to youth. 

Tim. Believe me, Javier, in what I told you just 
now : there is no longer any youth now : Carmen with 
her afflicted little chest : Lazarus with his disordered 
nerves; you with your sedateness and your megrim. 
We were of another stamp. 

Jav. Perhaps it's because you were of another 
stamp that we are made after this fashion. But let 
us change the subject, Don Timoteo. And so there 
is a complete reconciliation, and a wedding in per- 
spective ? 

Tim. I ? 11 tell you, I '11 tell you. But that Paca is 
not bringing the Manzanilla. (Looki?ig to see if she 
comes.) Really there was no cause to be offended. 
Lazarus said what he said — in a fever ! You saw him 
fall senseless at the feet of Carmen. What the devil 
was the meaning of that ? Go and learn that. In 
my time when a man fell down thus, it was decided 
to be drunkenness or apoplexy, and so medical science 
became simplified and was within the reach of every- 
body. But in these days, interpret you who can what 's 
the matter with the man who falls insensible. Poor 
Lazarus was very ill. However, they say that he is 
now getting on perfectly: the malady has passed the 
critical point. 

Tim. So they say and he seems very much restored : 
but he is always a very extraordinary person — like all 
men of talent. 

Jav. And so we shall have the wedding. 



104 The Son of Don Juan. 

Tim. Hum — wedding — that 's flour from another 
sack. I say nothing so as not to distress Carmen, 
not to be disagreeable to the parents, and because I 
would not give the boy another fainting fit. If 
Lazarus recovers completely and comes back to what 
he was, and writes something that will bring him con- 
siderable fame — sufficient to prove that his brain is 
quite sound — that the way is clear — eh ? Because 
Carmen, poor Carmen. But this Paca is not coming ! 

Jav. Carmen is very fond of him is she not ? 

Tim. I don't know — I don't know that girl, God 
help me! I am taking her away soon : within four 
or five hours we shall set out to catch the train. And 
before going away I shall speak to Bermudez. 

Jav. I only saw Lazarus for a moment, he seemed 
to me 

Tim. How? 

Jav. Much better. Youth works miracles. (Aside.) 
Poor Lazarus ! 

Tim. It 's true, it 's true. I myself had — I don't 
know what — and I was so to say — crazy for more 
than a year — much more and it passed off. 

Jav. Well nobody would think it — I mean nobody 
would think that you had ever had — anything — of 
that kind of infirmity — eh ? 

Tim. Well, I had it, I had it— they believed that it 
had left me an idiot 

Jav. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph ! 

Tim. But that devil of a woman who is not coming. 
She knew quite w T ell that the Manzanilla was only for 
me, and she delights in mortifying me. She has a 
most perverse mind. And she was always the same ; 
you don't know what that woman has been. 

Jav. Who ? She who was here just now? 

Tim. Exactly ; that was one of the most magnificent 



The Son of Don Juan. 105 

women in all Andalusia. She was called Paca the 
Tarifena. 

Jav. Ah, ha ! who would have said so ! 

Tim. I should have said so, Juanito would have 
said so, Nemesio would have said so, and everybody 
would have said so. The Tarifena ! the girl from 
Tarifa ! — she who acts in this house to-day as a 
servant or little better, twenty or thirty years ago 
commanded like a mistress. Afterwards, as always 
happens, she rambled about — rambled about — and 
farewell beauty, farewell grace, farewell magnificence. 
Old age, ugliness and misery, the three enemies — I '11 
not say of the soul, but of the bodies of pretty girls, 
fed themselves upon the gay Tarifena. Five or six 
years ago Juan got to know of it ; he felt sorry, and he 
took her into this country house, as mistress of the 
keys or something — as a matter of form. In short, 
she is in service in the country seat ; but she will not 
be of much service, for she was always very lively, 
but very lazy. 

Jav. Yet, so beautiful. 

Tim. A sun ! But women break down early. We 
men preserve ourselves better. Who would say that 
I am fifty-eight years old. 

Jav. Nobody ! Who ever accuses you ? (Aside.) 
Seventy-five ! 

Tim. I should think so. Halloa ! I think Lazarus 
is coming. 

Enter Lazarus on the left. Behind comes Doctor 
Bermudez but at a certain distance from 
Lazarus, as if observing him and being on 
the watch. 

Laz. {looking at Don Timoteo and Javier). 
This night we are all sitting up, the sitting up of the 
farewell. 



106 g The Son of Don Juan. 

Tim. I am obliged to you, but there was no need 
for you to trouble yourself. Let us say farewell now : 
you go to bed : and Carmen and I at daybreak, very 
quietly, without rousing anybody, will set out for the 
train. 

Laz. So, so ; very quietly, without waking anybody, 
in the silence of the night : so you wish to steal 
Carmen away. And so happiness is stolen away. 
Treachery ! But I am watching and I shall watch : 
Lazarus has risen and now he will never sleep any 
more. These eyes are very wide open to see every- 
thing (tenderly): the dear little head of my Carmen 
(laughing), the great, villanous head of Don Timoteo. 
To see the day with its splendor and the night with 
its gloom. (Going to the balcony.) How beautiful is 
the morning. We seem to have made an appointment 
with each other. " I shall appear in heaven," she 
says, " and do you appear at the balcony, and we shall 
gaze down upon each other." I cannot gaze upon 
you, forgive me ; Carmen would be jealous. She not 
being at my side I do not wish to gaze on anybody, I 
do not care to see anybody. (Withdraws irritably 
from the balcony and sees Bermudez.) Halloa, 
dearest doctor, were you here ? Did you follow me ? 
Did they send you to take charge of me ? Well, look 
you, it annoys me to have a sentinel always in sight — 
(restraining himself and cha?iging his tone) unless he 
be so kind hearted as my dear doctor. 

They all advance to the first entrance. 

Berm. I came with you to beg you not to sit up. 
Now go to bed, take some rest, and at daybreak I 
shall awaken you that you may bid good-by to 
Carmen and to Don Timoteo. 

Laz. That 's what you want ! I am not a child : I 



The Son of Don Juan. 107 

am not to be deceived. How does he who sleeps 
know what he will see on his awaking? If he does 
awake ! (Sits down.) 

Tim. However. (Approaching him) 

Jav. (approaching still nea7'er). I give yon my 
word. . . . 

Berm. (All surround him.) We all promise you 
solemnly 

Laz. It is useless — don't trouble yourselves. 
Besides I neither believe anybody, nor trust in any- 
body. I don't trust myself, and I am always observing 
myself whether perchance — in short, I understand 
myself : then how should I trust you ? You under- 
stand that that's asking too much. And enough, 
enough — I have said us. 

Berm. As you please, Lazarus. 

Laz. Moreover, sitting up is delightful. What a 
sky! what a night, what a river ! Just now we were 
downstairs in the drawing-room that looks on to the 
garden, my mother, my father, Carmen, the doctor, 
I — (counting on his fingers) and Paca likewise. All 
seated, all resting, and somewhat sleepy, excepting 
Paca. In an angle a lamp : the doors on a level with 
the outside : the sky in the distance : the garden with 
its twining plants and its rose trees making itself a 
portion of the saloon, as if to bear us company : the 
penetrating perfumes of the lemon flower, and the 
freshness of the river impregnating the atmosphere : 
little insects of all colors, a few butterflies among 
them, as if engendered by the air, came from without 
attracted by the lamp and fluttered between the light 
and the gloom, as ideas revolve within me now ; and 
Paca too was fluttering amidst us all. (A pause.) 
What, you are laughing ? {To Javier.) 

Jav. I am not laughing. 



io8 The Son of Don Juan. 

Laz. Yes ; you laugh because I said that Paca was 
fluttering between my father, my mother, Carmen and 
myself. Well, I maintain it : is it only butterflies 
that flutter about ? Flies and gad-flies flutter as well. 
And so, as I lay there with eyes half closed, Paca, 
with her black dress and her black mantle with its 
fringe, seemed to me an enormous fly. She fluttered 
ponderously from my father to my mother — serving 
my father with sherry and my mother with iced water 
— and between Carmen and myself, to worry me with 
questions, and to fix a flower in Carmen's hair, rustling 
against us both with her mantle and its fringes, as a 
fly rustles with its dark and hairy wings. She is a 
kind woman but I felt a repugnance and loathing, and 
a chill and I came up to stand and breathe on yonder 
balcony. 

Jav. And to contemplate the stars. 

Laz. One, no more than one. And such extrava- 
gant ideas. But we apprentices of poetry are thus. 
You are right, Bermudez, extravagant — very — very — 
I was thinking of Paca, I was gazing at the star, and 
I felt an inane, ridiculous, but unconquerable desire. 
It was to seize one of my foils, to run it through the 
gad-fly with her fringed mantle, as one runs an insect 
through with a pin, and to burn her at the light of 
that most beautiful star. Like what? The putres- 
cence of humanity which is consumed and purified in 
heavenly flames. You don't understand me, Don 
Timoteo? 

Tim. Well, I don't think there is much to under- 
stand — and even though a man may not be a 
genius 

Laz. Don't be vexed : these are jokes : I offend 
you ? The father of Carmen ? when for her sake I 
am ready to go down on my knees and to declare that 



The Son of Don Juan. 109 

you are young and beautiful and that you have brains, 
and to compel the whole world to declare the same. 
Your arms, Don Timoteo, your arms. {They em- 
brace.') You bear no grudge against me, do you ? 

Tim. Dear me, why should I ? 

Laz. Then don't take away Carmen; don't sepa- 
rate me from her. A sick man should have his way 
in everything — and it would make me worse, let 
Bermudez tell you. Is it not true that it would make 
me ill? Say it — say it? 

Tim. But you are well now ? 

Berm. Quite well. 

Laz. And you, what do you say ? 

Jav. My boy, I find you as well as ever. 

Tim. And I really must go to Sevilla. But we 
shall soon come back to be reunited. You are not a 
convalescent : you don't require to stay here. Away 
home to work ! 

Laz. (in the ear of Tim). Then when will the 
wedding be ? 

Tim. For my part — any day — but that, let the 
doctor say. 

Laz. Not that man — not that man — ah — I know 
him — and yet let him say. 

Berm. It depends on the state of mind that you are 
in: if you are in a sound state of mind, very soon. 

Laz. Well, before you take Carmen away you have 
to decide it. The morning approaches — it will be 
here in less than two or three hours. You see that 
brightness? It is beginning to dawn already, and we 
must sit up by all means. Therefore you go in there, 
into that cabinet — and you fix the date. I shall not 
be in your way. Now you see that I can do no more. 
But you must say when and let me know ; when I 
know it I shall be more at ease. With to-day there 



no The Son of Don Juan. 

will be one day less : two less : three — it is not far off 
now : very little short of the time : three days off, two 
days off, one day off, it is to-morrow, it is to-day — she 
is my Carmen for ever — she is mine — {vehe?nently\ 
Now, let who dare force her from my arms ! Oh ! 
Carmen now belongs to Lazarus. {Changing his 
tone.) I am saying what will happen — when you fix 
the day — because by the fixing of the day we only 
want two — now we are only short of one — now it has 
arrived — all happy ! {Embracing Tim. and Jav.) 
It 's true, it 's true ! And now, in there. 

Tim. For my part, with much pleasure, and it seems 
to me a good idea. Will you have it so, Bermudez ? 

Berm. I am at your orders — and if Lazarus 
insists 

Laz. No more — no more — enter — here — and in 
all freedom. Your little cabinet — the balcony open 

— the flowers of that terrace which are beginning to 
take color — the Gaudalquivir which commences to 
waken with its silver lights. Very good — very good 

— you are going to be perfectly comfortable — and all 
this will incline you to good nature. Don't be very 
cruel — don't fix too long a term — for in this world, 
what is not to-day is never. 

Tim. Shall we go in? 
Berm. Yes, senor. 

They move slowly and speaking in low tones toward 
the right. 

Laz. {in a low, energetic voice to Javier). And 
you, too, go. I don't trust them. The wretches, they 
would say never : go, go, with them. 

Jav. But I 

Laz. (Berm. and Tim. are now at the door). Eh ? 
wait, Javier is accompanying you, I have requested 



The Son of Don Juan. hi 

him — because I wish to have some one that may plead 
for me and for Carmen. This you cannot deny me. 

Tim. I should think not — come — come. 

Jav. {to Laz.) If you insist. 

Laz. In there, all three — all three — and afterwards 
we shall give an account of all to my mother and my 
father and Carmen. Soon — soon 

Berm. (at the door). You two go in 

Tim. You go in first. 

Berm. By no means. 

Laz. Go in any way : I am waiting 

Berm. We shall soon have done, be calm, Lazarus, 
be calm. 

Laz. {alone). Yes: he is right: I have need of 
much calm. Outside there all is calm : then why 
should I not be calm as well? Without there is 
twilight (pressing his forehead) : within here is 
another twilight. But yonder half obscurity will end 
by filling itself with light. And this — this? I seem 
to see beyond the luminous little clouds a great gloom. 
There without are worlds and suns and immensity — 
yet nothing of that bears the least consequence to me : 
here within are three insignificant persons — and it is 
they who are about to decide my destiny. To be 
menaced with the danger of one of those orbs that 
whirl through space overwhelming Carmen and my- 
self — there would be grandeur for us in such a fate. 
But to be threatened with the possibility of a doctor 
and a fool putting me in a cage and leaving Carmen 
outside, to fret her pale front against the cold iron 
bars — this is cruel, this is humiliating — and nobody 
shall humiliate me. I am worth more than them all 
put together. I am better than them all. {Interrupt- 
ing himself^) Better than Carmen ? — no. Neither am 
I better than my mother, and my father — my father — 



ii2 The Son of Don Juan. 

he loves me much — more than I — silence ! Yet if he 
is capable of loving more than I, then he is better 
than I — the result is that everybody is better than 
Lazarus. How is this possible? {Walks about in 
great agitation.) 

Enter Paca with some cups of Manzanilla. 
Who is this ? It is Paca. Why the result will be — 
I see it — that even that creature is better than myself. 

Paca. Is not Don Timoteo here ? Then why does 
he give orders for nothing? He gives orders and 
then he goes away. 

Laz. Whom are you looking for ? 

Paca. For Don Timoteo: he asked me for some 
cups of Manzanilla, and he went away without waiting 
for me. 

Laz. Bring them, bring them. I '11 take them. 
Leave them here. 

Paca {putting the?n on a little table). You, 
sefiorito ? And if they do you harm ? 

Laz. Harm to me ? Poor woman ! Look — 
(drinks a cup). I drink and you flutter about. 

Paca. I nutter about, senorito ? Ah ! what things 
you say. 

Laz. What do you see out there ? 

Paca. Nothing. 

Laz. Just so. Nothing: that's what we all see. 
And inside here, what do you see ? 

Paca. Well, you. 

Laz. That 's it the son of Don Juan drinking ; and 
Paca whirling round. (Drinks another glass.) 

Paca. Don't drink any more, senorito : you are not 
at all well and it will do you harm. And Dona 
Dolores will be grieved and Don Juan will be grieved. 

Laz. And I '11 make the Manzanilla grieve. And 
you, won't you be grieved ? 



The Son of Don Juan. 113 

Paca. Why, yes: for I am very fond of the 
senorito. 

Laz. The result is that everybody is fond of me. 
Everybody is fond of me, and I am fond of nobody. 
Ah! of Carmen — yes: and of my mother as well: 
and of my father: and of poor Javier — well, then I 
am fond of everybody — This {taking a cup or glass) 
must make it clear. {Giving Paca a glass.) Let us 
both make it clear. 

Paca (stopping him). Senorito, for God's sake ! 

Laz. No ; it is n't for God's sake, it 's for mine. 

Paca. If you insist. (Drinks.) 

Laz. And now I. (Takes up another glass) 

Paca (stopping him). No ; not you. 

Laz. Well then, you. 

Paca. Ah ! by the most Holy Virgin, you see I 
have lost the practice. 

Laz. You fool, why this is very healthy. It gives 
you strength. I now feel capable of anything. Awhile 
ago you seemed to me all funereal ; now I perceive 
your black cloak to be all overspread with spangles of 
gold, and fragments of rainbow, like the wings of a 
butterfly. 

Paca. Ah, senorito, I have been that. Ask 

Laz. Ask whom? 

Paca. Nobody — anybody whatever. Ugh, I am 
stifled. (Lets fall the black handkerchief fro7n her head 
over her shoulders.) Yes, senorito — when people said 
— the Tarifena — there was no need to say more. 

Laz. That was a climax, eh? Well, take another 
and you shall begin again. 

Paca. You see we shall both be getting upset. 

(They take the Manzanifta.) 
Laz. Listen, Tarifena, sylph of former times, en- 



ii4 The Sox of Don Juan. 

chanting siren of our forefathers, moth-eaten memorial 
of their joys, will you do me a favor? 

Paca. I should think so. I am loyal to the house, 
and to all that 's in the house, and to you, sefiorito, 
because you are of the house. 

Laz. Good; and to those who are not of the house, 
no. Well, inside there are three who are not of the 
house: Don Timoteo, Bermudez, and Javier. And 
those three are working so that I may not be married 
to Carmen. They say that I am ill, that I am a bad 
fellow, that I wOuld cause much misery to Carmen; 
in short, they propose to break off my wedding — see 
w r hat infamy ! 

Paca. Old men never wish young people to be 
married ; old men are great scoundrels. Old women 
are quite the contrary ; we old women would like 
everybody to get married. Why, what does the 
human race exist for? To get married; exactly. 
And you and beautiful little Carmen will make such 
a pair. 

Laz. You are very kind, very tender-hearted ; you 
don't wish any one to suffer pain. Take {gives her 
another cup) 

Paca. Ah ! yes, sefiorito, although it does n't be- 
come me to talk about my being tender-hearted, I 
rtever harmed any one. 

Laz. So ought all women with good hearts to be. 
Take 

Paca (refusing if) . I can't take anymore. I can't 
take any more. 

Laz. Then listen. That cabinet leads on to the 
terrace, and the terrace goes round the house — you 
understand? — and the window which looks on to the 
terrace is on a level with it, so that if you go on to 
the terrace by here, and approach, you can hear 



The Son of Don Juan. 115 

everything ; and if they wish to separate me from my 
own little Carmen, you come and tell me, and I '11 
know what to do. 

Paca {laughing). What good ideas you have, 
senorito. I should — I will do this — the vagabonds! 
But Don Juan wishes you to be married? 

Laz. Does he not wish it! The one who does not 
wish it is Don Timoteo. The one who wishes to 
carry off little Carmen as soon as daylight comes, is 
he ! The one who means to strangle them all — is 
myself. And the one who has to make fools of them 

— that's you. 

Paca. With the very greatest pleasure. 

Laz. But first of all go down to the garden, enter 
the drawing-room — my father and mother will be 
sleeping, Carmen will be awake ; Carmen does not 
sleep, I know that ! — and without any one but herself 
hearing you, tell her — that I am waiting for her ; tell 
her to come up, that at dawn her father is taking her 
away, and that I want to bid her farewell. You 
understand ? 

Paca. Yes, senorito Farewell. Farewells are 

very sad. I have bidden farewell many times, and I 
have always wept. 

Laz. Good. Well now you shall weep again. We 
shall all weep. 

Paca. Don 't say that. 

Laz. Yes, you simpleton, weeping relieves you. 
Take note : laughing tries you, and weeping relieves 
you. 

Paca. Well now it 's true. Ah ! what you do know, 
senorito ! 

Laz. Take {giving her a glass). You and I are 
also going to bid farewell to each other : clink — clink 

— and ex-Tarifena. 



n6 The Son of Don Juan, 

Paca. To the health of the Senorita Carmen. 

Laz. To the health of the man whom you have 
most loved — when you were in love. 

Paca. Then to the health —to the health of all the 
family ! 

Laz. {reversing the glass). Look, not a drop ! 

Paca. The same with me. 

Laz. And now to call Carmen — and afterwards to 
listen to what those people say. 

Paca. I am going there ; give me another to take 
breath. 

Laz. Take, old girl, take. 

Paca. You shall see what I am. (Goes towards the 
cabinet.) 

Laz. No, not that way ; I told you by the terrace. 
{Making her go out by the terrace.) 

Paca. Ha, ha ! Yes, I shall know it all some day. 
He wants to show me the way of the house (laughing). 

Laz. Now quick ; and first of all let Carmen come. 

Paca. At once, at once; but don't make her cry, 
poor little thing, poor little thing ; men like to make 
women cry; but she — she — is such a little thing. 
Jesus, how warm it is ! [Goes out by the terrace. 

Laz. (alone). I feel more confident — I find the 
strength flowing into my arms. To defend Carmen I 
need much strength. Well, I have it now. Every- 
thing is dawning — everything is rising — everything is 
returning. Light on the horizon, life to my muscles, 
and Carmen to me. Lazarus is Lazarus. The moment 
has arrived for the struggle — for the supreme struggle. 
But here one cannot struggle. Everything is soft and 
yielding. The carpet soft, the divans soft, the East 
filled with gauze and tufts of cotton wool. I want 
rock whereon to lean back, a sword to cut, a mace 
to crush — hardness, angles, metals that may offer 



The Son of Don Juan. 117 

resistance to me — and let me reduce all to powder 
(pressing his forehead). I feel the blood whirling 
round within my temples ! {pressing his bosom). Fire 
in my breast ! engines of steel in my arms ! 

(Carmen appears on the terrace with Paca who 
points her out to Lazarus, then disappears^) 
Carmen ! 

Car. Lazarus ! 

Laz. (strains her frantically in his arms). Carmen, 
my own Carmen. Now let them say what they like, 
those imbeciles, and let them come to seek you. 

Car. But what 's the matter with you ? My God ! 
I don't understand. 

Laz. You don't understand that I love you more 
than my life, and that I have never told you so ? 

Car. Yes, you have many times told me so. 

Laz. But in very poor fashion — coldly, lifelessly. 
The fact is that there is no way of saying these 
things. Vulgar words, vulgar phrases ! " I love you 
more than my life, more than my soul ; you are my 
happiness, you are my hope, my dream. . . . " 
Pshaw ! Everybody says that. It has become pro- 
faned on all lips. 

Car. When I heard you speak so, it seemed 
to me that you were the only one in the world who 
said^uch things. 

Laz. No, you little goose, they all say them. And 
I don't wish to say what everybody says ; because 
you are not like other people, and for you it is 
necessary to invent other things. Let me see, what 
shall I invent? 

Car. What you like. But while you are inventing, 
you may go on saying what you used to say, for it 
sounds well to me — and if it does n't trouble you. 

Laz. You will never have understood how I love 



n8 The Son of Don Juan. 

you, for I have not known how to explain myself; I 
have not understood it myself until now. I saw 
surrounding me an immeasurable horizon, and I was 
lost in the contemplation of it : worlds and marvels 
and splendors and sounds and melodies. But now 
all is obscured, all has become confined : a sombre 
background which folds itself up, something like a 
stupendous eyeball which becomes contracted, and 
in the centre nothing is left but a small circle of light, 
and in that circle is an image — it is yours — now all 
has become blotted out, and there remains no more 
than Carmen, and in Carmen I reconcentrate all that 
lies* before me of life, of longing, of thought, of love. 
Let not the eyeball close up, finally, for then I shall 
be left in darkness. 

Car. Then you love me more than I thought? 
What joy for me ! 

Laz. There is no reason to be joyful, for they wish 
to separate us. 

Car. Who? 

Laz. They (pointing to the cabinet). 

Car. Why? 

Laz. Because I have not known how to explain to 
them what you are to me, and neither have you 
understood; and they believe that we shall console 
ourselves, that we shall grow resigned, that there is 
nothing more to be said then. " Lock up Lazarus, 
take away Carmen." Do you consent? 

Car. I? No, never; no, Lazarus, I am not re- 
signed. I cannot do more than one thing : die. 
Well, I shall die. Can I do more ? 

Laz. No ; that will do well ; that 's enough. 

Car. But you can defend me. 

Laz. Defend you? How? Yes, I'll defend you; 
but how? 



The Son of Don Juan. 119 

Car. Why, who threatens us ? 

Laz. I don't know. I can't well explain. I am 
now as it were on the boundaries of a desert, a desert 
contains much sand, which never ends ; much solitude 
which is never rilled; much thirst which is never 
quenched, and a sky which becomes flattened in the 
centre as if it were about to fall, and which never 
falls. At least if it did sink down all would be at an 
end. 

Car. Yes, much sadness which never ends. I felt 
that when I had doubts of you. It is true, the world 
was a desert. 

Laz. Well in that desert you gather up a handful of 
sand and you begin to count the little grains — one, 
two, three, hundreds, thousands — and you never finish 
counting. Yet there is no more than a handful — and 
you gather up another — and you gather up another — 
and the sand never ends. And you run and run; 
but no, onward to the horizon all is overwhelmed with 
sand. 

Car. But what 's the meaning of this ? I don't 
understand. 

Laz. It means — it is very clear — don't you see ? 
It seems clear to me, yet you don't understand. It 
means that I, who had wild dreams of applause, of 
glory, of gaining still more glory and applause with 
my Carmen, I see before me the fate of having to 
count grains and grains, handfuls and handfuls of 
sand, for days and nights and years, until the end — 
if there be an end. I don't know if there be an end. 

Car. Lazarus, Lazarus, don't talk so; don't look 
in that way ! 

Laz. Then save me ! Why what did I call you for 
except that you should save me ? 

Car. Yes, I will save you ; but how ? 



120 The Son of Don Juan. 

Laz. Consider now whether yon love me so much. 
Suppose that we are about to say farewell for ever — 
because we are on the confines of that desert — both 
together at a little fountain — the last ! It holds fresh 
water, the last ! On the falling of the tube into the 
water it forms flakes of foam — the last — and I wish 
to drink for the last time and to cool my face and to 
sprinkle foam upon my lips that they may become 
wreathed in smiles. Help me — look at me — speak — 
laugh — sing — weep — do something, Carmen,for I am 
now being hurried away from you. I am now going 
into the desert; do something; throw me at least 
what your hands will hold of water, that a few drops 
may fall upon my face. 

Carmen folds him in her arms. 

Car. But why do you say that? I don't under- 
stand. Are you sad ? Are you vexed ? Are you ill ? 
These few days past, this very morning, you were so 
well, so cheerful, Lazarus. 

Laz. They say — that I am going to forget you — 
that soon I shall not know you — that you will be close 
to me, and I — without suspecting it — like a child — 
like an idiot 

Car. No, not that ! 

Laz. But if it should be so ? 

Car. It will not be so. 

Laz. Why not ? {His look begins to wander and 
he scarcely hears what follows ; he assumes the face 
of an idiot and his arms fall to his sides.) 

Car. Because I shall be close to you — and must 
you not see me ? Because I shall call to you 
" Lazarus ! " — and must you not answer me ? Because 
I shall weep much, my tears will fall upon you — and 
must you not feel them ? I am weak as a child, but 



The Son of Don Juan. 121 

children too can hold on strongly. Lazarus, attend to 
me; are you not attending to what I say? I am 
Carmen. Look at me ! That pale little head which 
you used to speak of is touching your lips. Look, I 
am smiling at you, Laugh yourself. Answer me. 
Lazarus — Lazarus — Awake! Do you hear me? What 
are you looking at ? 

Laz. Yes — I know — I know — but call my mother. 

Car. No — I alone — they would separate us: we 
two alone. Why do you want your mother to come ? 

Laz. I want to sleep. 

Car. (looking on all sides). Then rest on me. 
Sleep in my arms. 

Laz. You little fool, no. If I sleep it must be in 
the arms of my mother. That 's what mothers are 
for. When I awake I shall call you. 

Car. Lazarus ! 

Laz. Call her! Don't I tell you to call her? 
Obey, you selfish girl. Don't you wish that I should 
have rest neither ? 

Car. Yes. I '11 call her. {Walking to the door) 
My God! 

Laz. Are you going or not ? Or must I go myself? 

Car. No; wait; it is that I am not able. (Stand- 
ing at the door) Dolores ! Don Juan ! 

Laz. I said my mother — I only want one person; 
one. 

Car. Well, I was that one. 

Laz. No, she — I can't say to you — Mother ! 

Car. (calling). Dolores! 

Laz. (going towards her and calling). Mother ! 

Car. They are coming now. 

Laz. Several are coming. I did not say so many. 
I shall have to defend myself, and, to defend myself, 
I need to have much courage. (Drinks a glass.) 



122 The Son of Don Juan. 

Car. Quick ! Here ! Dolores ! 

Enter Dolores and Don Juan. 

Dol. Why did you call? Is it that Lazarus ? 

Juan. What 's the matter with Lazarus? 

Laz. Nothing; Carmen was frightened — I don't 
know why, and she called. 

Car. He seems better. Lazarus, they are here 
now. Do you wish me to remain also ? 

Laz. Why not? Yes, everybody about me. As we 
w r ere downstairs. My mother, my father, sweet little 
Carmen ! I ! There 's one short — ah ! Paca. I still 
keep my memory. (Laughing.) Well, yes, we are 
short of Paca. Ha ! Let us sit down as we were 
before, and let us wait till the day arrives. It is now 
about to dawn. Look, look what brightness there is 
in the distance. A great sitting up ! And why are 
we sitting up ? 

Dol. You wished it 

Juan. Yes, my son ; it was you that insisted upon 
it ; and when you desire anything, what are we all for 
but to give you pleasure ? 

Laz. We have to bid farewell to Carmen. A fare- 
well is a very sad and solemn thing, a thing beyond 
all consolation, and I have need to be consoled. 
Come, mother, to this side : come you also (Jo his 
father) to the other side ; I must be between the two : 
and you must both tell me that this separation is a 
passing one, that we shall soon be all reunited to 
Carmen for ever — and, such other things as are said ; 
though they may not be true they are said. 

Dolores and Juan are seated at either side 
of Lazarus. 
Dol. But they are true. 
Juan. Why, nothing else was to happen. 



The Son of Don Juan. 123 

Carmen approaches. 

Car. Yes, Lazarus, we shall be reunited very soon. 

Laz. {angrily). You must not come near. You 
keep off. 

Car. {withdrawing in pain and anguish). Lazarus! 

Dol. Lazarus, look how poor Carmen is grieved. 

Juan. Nay, come, my daughter, come; Lazarus 
wishes you to come. 

Laz. It cannot be. It is she who is going away. 
If she is going away she must be at a distance. And 
from a distance I say "Adieu, Carmen, adieu ; I love 
you deeply." {With passion?) Do you see? It is 
not that I do not love her; it is that things must be 
as they are. 

Car. {restraining her grief, aside). Impossible ! 
Impossible ! My Lazarus ! 

Dol. {to her son). What 5 s the matter with you ? 

Juan. How are you, Lazarus ? 

Laz. Very well; between you two, very well, as 
when I was a child, with the same calmness, the same 
peace as then. 

Dol. You remember? 

Laz. Yes, for my head is very sound. With what 
clearness I remember those times ! 

Juan {to Dolores). You see ? he is well, the same 
as during all those days. Carmen has alarmed her- 
self without cause. 

Car. That 's true, without cause. 

Juan. His head is far more steady than ours. This 
way — between the two. 

Laz. No. I remember everything now ; between 
the two, no ; I was alone with my mother ; you were 
not there ! Go away, go away. {Putting his father 
away without violence.) 



i24 The Sox of Don Juan. 

Juan. You don't remember that well, Lazarus. 
{With hu?nilityi) We were both beside you many 
times. (In a tone of anguish.} Is it not true, 
Dolores? (In a siipplisating manner?) 

Dol. Yes. my dear. 

Laz. Xo — I must not be contradicted. I was 
alone with her. [Embracing her.) 

Dol. My son. 

Juan. Why do you put me away ? Can I love you 
more than I do ? 

Laz. Ah ! yes — well, you are right, father. 

Juan. You see? I was right ! 

Laz. Yes. once we were as we are now — ha, ha, ha! 

Juan. The same as now. 

Car. Oh. his Look— his look ! (Aside.) 

Laz. Hush — hush. As now — no, not as now. 
My mother was dishevelled, weeping, but very beau- 
tiful, and you haughty and disdainful, but gay and 
elegant. Away! and she weeping, sobbing, and you 
laughing: and you quarrelled — how you quarrelled! 
— it was terrible. 

Juan. Xo. 

Laz. Yes. I see it now. 

Car. (aside). His look! How he stares on every 
side ! 

Juan. Don't be angry — but you don't remember 
well. 

Laz. (angrily). I must not be contradicted. You 
quarrelled. I know it — I see it — as I still feel that 
terror. 

Juan. Lazarus ! 

Dol. (to Juan). Be quiet. 

Juan. Well, then we quarrelled — a little dispute. 

Laz. (laughing). Xo — no — it was not a little iis- 
pute. It was a desperate fight : you quarrelk :' 



The Son of Don Juan. 125 

earnest. And you, father, wished to take hold of me 
— and you took hold of me — and gave me a caress. 
{Laughing.) Come, come, you were not so bad. 

Juan. You see, Lazarus, you see ? 

Laz. But my mother tore me out of your arms, and 
she pressed me in her own, and said to you : " Off 
with your hold; go away; go and enjoy yourself; go 
and get drunk. Leave him to me." 

Juan. No. Lazarus — I think not — as you were such 
a child you don't remember. 

Dol. (to Juan). Silence ! 

Laz. And you cried out : " Well, then, remain with 
him, and much good may he do you ! Much good ! " 
What contempt ! and you pushed me away. 

Juan. No, no, that I did not. I never did so. 

Laz. Yes. 

Juan. No. 

Laz. (angrily). I say yes. You pushed me — leave 
me, father; leave me alone with my mother. (Putting 
him away.) There, there, far off — far off — with Car- 
men. 

Juan (withdraws a?id embraces Carmen). Oh, my 
Lazarus, my Lazarus ! 

Laz. {laughing, to his mother). There are the exiles 
in their valley of tears. 

Car. It is not possible — it is not possible ! Let 
"them come — let them come ; let them save him ! 

Juan. Yes — let them save him. 

Laz. (to his mother). Now, with you. 

Dol. With me — always with me. 

Laz. Always with you ! No, that 's not true neither. 
Why, Lord, you people don't remember anything; 
here nobody remembers a thing but myself. You 
sent me away — very far — to an accursed college. I 
wished to stay with you, and you said, " Let them 



126 The Son of Don Juan. 

take him away, let them take him away ! " He {point- 
ing to his father) said, " Stay with your mother," and 
he went away. You said, " Let them take him away," 
and you remained alone. Both, both of you separated 
yourselves from me. Oh, I remember all this very 
well, and until now I had never called it to mind. 
Something seems to be melting within my brain ; 
something goes on sweeping away the ruins of all 
ideas of the present ; and, as amid soil which the 
torrent drags along, there spring to light ancient 
moulds, so within here there rushed up the entire world 
of my childhood. So it is, and I remember every- 
thing. I fell asleep night after night without a kiss 
from either of you. Morning after morning I awoke 
without a caress from any one. Alone I lived — alone 
I shall continue to live ; go, mother, to those yonder. 
{Putting her away gently.) 

Dol. (taJuAN). Ah! through you! {Turning back.) 
Lazarus ! 

Laz. I have said that I wish to be alone. I love 
you dearly, but take notice that things have to be 
precisely as they are. 

Dol., Car., and Don Juan are together; Laz. 
contemplates them with a vague smile ; then he 
continues. 

Thus we are as we should be. Each one in his place 
— to every one his own. But I don't want to be so 
lonely neither. Let Paca come — Paca! 

Juan. Whom is he calling ? 

Laz. Her. Paca! 

Enter Paca. 
Paca. Sefiorito. 

Laz. Come; here — very close. (To the others?) 
Now I am not alone, you see,> father? Now I have 



The Son of Don Juan. 127 

company, and merrier company than yours — you who 
are sad and gloomy as death. Take a glass, Paca, 
and give me another, and let us drink as we did a 
short time ago. 

Dol. Lazarus ! 

Paca. Sefiorito, I drank a great deal, and now I 
don't know — now, my head is 

Laz. Yes, I insist on it — you and I. 

Juan. Good God! No. 

Laz. Why not? Ah, you egoist, that have your 
own enjoyment and don't wish others to enjoy them- 
selves. Well, I too wish to enjoy myself. My life is 
drawing to a close, and I must take advantage of 
that ! Drink, Tarifena, drink, and laugh, and dance, 
and twirl about. And tell me of your merry, youthful 
days — something that will cheer me, something to fire 
my blood, which I now feel turning cold. Laughter, 
orgies, dances, loves — something that may shake my 
nerves, which I now feel to be growing torpid. Come, 
Tarifena, give me life, for I am going, and I wish to 
live. 

Juan. No more, no more — I cannot see this. I 
cannot hear this. 

Dol. Oh, God! 

Juan {rushes away from the others and approaches 
Paca, seizing her by an arm). Go ! 

Laz. (holding her also). She shall not go. 

Juan. I command it. 

Laz. And I also. 

Juan (to Paca). By the salvation of my soul, if 
you don't go, I shall throw you from that balcony into 
the river. Look, you don't know yet what I am. 
Quick ! 

Laz. (fiercely). I have said no ! Do you take a 
delight in tormenting me ? 



128 The Son of Don Juan. 

Juan (falling on his knees at the feet of his soil)* 
Lazarus, for the love of God let this woman go away. 

Laz. Poor man! Ah! those white hairs. {Fondling 
them,) And he is weeping. Poor dear father ! Well ! 
you now see how grieved he is. Go away, woman, go 
away — since it must be so. 

Paca withdraws. 

Juan. Oh — my Lazarus — my happiness — my chas- 
tisement ! 

Laz. I don't want to chastise you ; I don't want to 
chastise anybody. What I desire is that we should 
all be merry. Come, woman, you now see that nobody 
wants you ; go away. Have you not heard ? 

Paca. First of all, I have to tell what those people 
{pointing to the cabinet) are saying ; you ordered me. 

Laz. (in astonishment). I ? 

Juan (rises). What do they say? 

They all surrotmd Paca. 

Paca. Wicked things. That they won't let these 
two be married. 

Car. My God ! 

Juan. Why? Speak! 

Dol. Quiet! 

Juan. Say it low ! 

Paca. Because the sefiorito is about to have his 
last attack, and all will be at an end with him ; and 
you — (to Carmen) your father is now going to take 
you away. 

Dol. Ah ! (runs to embrace her son, who has fol- 
lowed with his gaze the group.) 

Car. (desperately). No ! I — with him — for ever. 

Juan (rushing to the cabinet). Bermudez ! Here ! 

Paca (aside). It's well thattfiey should know it. 



The Son of Don Juan. 129 

Enter Bermudez, Don Timoteo and Javier. 
Juan. Bermudez — save my son and demand of me 
my life, my soul — all that you wish — what will I not 
give you — but save my Lazarus. 

Dolores runs to meet Bermudez ; Carmen alone 
remains with Lazarus. 

Dol. Bermudez, one hope ! One hope ! 
Bermudez, followed by Dolores and Don Juan, 
approaches Lazarus. Timoteo advances towards 
Carmen. Javier stands apart. 

Tim. Come, Carmen; my daughter, come. It is 
getting late. 

Car. No. With him ; I '11 not leave him so. 

Tim. It is necessary — for heaven's sake, girl, 
{Separating her fro?n Lazarus.) 

Car. Lazarus, they are separating us. 

Laz. {gathering himself together with a supreme 
effort). Who? That old man! That scum of the 
earth ! Away, scum, to your heap of refuse ! I pass 
on to life ! I pass on to love ! Carmen, to my arms ! 
{Rushes towards her, catches her, and takes her to the 
balcony. The others follow the?n^) Look, what an 
horizon ! W T hat splendor ! Come, melt your soul 
in mine, enfold your body round mine, and let us 
mingle ourselves among yonder rays of light. Yes, 
come, Carmen, come ! 

They are separated by force, and Lazarus is drawn 
away, and falls at last on the sofa. 
Berm. The last ray of light ! 
The characters are disposed of .in the following 
manner: — Lazarus on the sofa to the right. 
Don Juan, staggering, falls on the sofa to the 
left, hiding his face in his hands y as if to help 
9 



130 The Son of Don Juan. 

him, Paca stations herself at his side. Toward 
the left Timoteo and Carmen; Javier with 
Dolores in the centre. Bermudez stands 
contemplating Lazarus. A pause. Lazarus/^ 
motionless. 

Jav. (in a low voice to Bermudez). Is he dead? 

Berm. Alas ! 

Juan. How many mornings have I myself awoke 
here! 

Paca. True! 

Juan. Silence ! — And my Lazarus is not awaking. 

Dol. {to Bermudez). I have nothing left in life but 
Lazarus. In God's name, Bermudez, think of that. 

Tim. Carmen ! 

Car. It is useless, father. I shall not leave him. 

Berm. Silence — silence! The day breaks — the 
sun begins to rise — Lazarus seems to be returning to 
himself. He lifts his gaze — he fixes it on the light 
which springs forth. Let us listen — let us listen! — 
This is decisive ! 

Juan. To hear what he will say? Will he call 
upon me ? 

Dol. It is on me that he will call. 

Car. He will not call on me ! 

Laz. (with his face towards the rising sun). Mother ! 

Dol. (running to hi?n and embracing him). Lazarus ! 

Laz. (pointing to the sun). How beautiful ! 

Juan (fallmg on his knees by the sofa and raising 
his arms : Pac a holds him). Lord! Lord! 

Dol. Lazarus ! 

Laz. Most beautiful! most beautiful! Mother — 
give me the sun / 

Dol. Ah! — My God! 

Laz. The sun ! — the sun ! — I want the sun ! 



The Son of Don Juan. 131 

Juan, {still on his knees; falls against the sofa: 
Paca holds hint). My boy! 

Doe. {embracing Lazarus). My darling ! 

Car. (wildly embracing her father, who subdues her). 
Lazarus ! — My life ! 

Berm. For ever ! 

Laz. Mother — the sun! — the sun! — give me the 
sun ! {He says this like a child, and with the face of 
an idiot.') 

Juan. I also asked for it. Jesus — my Lazarus, my 
Lazarus ! 

Laz. Give me the sun ! Mother, mother — the sun ! 
For God's sake — for God's sake — for God's sake, 
mother — give me the sun! 



The End. 



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